


Draco In Shadow

by wench_fics (WeasleyWench)



Series: Draco In Shadow [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Explicit Sex, First Time M/M, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, bottom!Draco, depression fic, explicit artwork, ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/wench_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes all one needs is a guide to leave the darkness, even if it’s only in the mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco In Shadow

**Title:** Draco In Shadow  
 **Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 24,000  
 **Warnings:** angst, first-time M/M sex, oral sex, language, mentions of non-major-character death, EWE, OOC, romance  
 **Summary:** Sometimes all one needs is a guide to leave the darkness, even if it’s only in the mind.  
 **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is © J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, Scholastic, and all others involved. I do not own or make any money from this work of fiction.  
 **Beta:** Vaysh, Queenie Mab, Jamie2109,  & Sapphire

 **Dedication:** To leochi for her generosity and the inspiration for this. I’m not sure this is what you expected, but I hope you like it anyway. Thank you for everything! *hugs*

**\- Draco In Shadow -**

“What? I’m not doing that, Malfoy!”

Focussing on the voice, never mind its owner, was difficult. Draco tried to follow Potter’s mouth and to block out the sound. Moments passed before Draco looked up and met squinting eyes; wrinkles etched their corners. 

“Quid pro quo?” Potter blinked a few times and put his hand in front of his face. Light shattered where the quill between his fingers cast a shadow on the floor.

Draco’s gaze shifted downward to the slightly crooked, obsidian-looking finger with suspicion. Sweat coated his palms as he realised the globes filled with steely fire did nothing to consume the shadows.

“Malfoy! Answer me.”

Unwilling to jump at Potter’s command, Draco paused before speaking. “Yes, Potter. It’s simple.” He held absolutely still. Too many undulating lines drenched the floor from Potter’s movement already, making Draco shrink away. Sweat broke out on his palms, and a chill ran down his spine. He had to get away from the smudges dancing on the floor. The twisted shapes all looked like Dementors reaching out to take Draco back to his cell.

Potter scoffed. “You’re mad.” With one smooth motion, he bent the tip of his quill against the roll of parchment in his lap and drove a hole through, a muted _pop_ following. A smear, dark and long as the oozing shadow stretching behind him marred the page.

Relieved, Draco unclenched his fists and flexed his fingers. The tension dissipated slowly as he realised that shadow was ink and could be washed away. Not the others, though.

“That’s not how this works, you know. I’ve been trying to get you to co-operate for two weeks, and that’s the first real thing you have to say to me?” Potter shook his head. “Parkinson was right about you. I should’ve listened.” 

He looked directly at Draco, eyes glinting against the magical light that engulfed the room like silver Fiendfyre. Some response was needed; Draco should protest. Whatever Pansy had told Potter was true, though.

“You should’ve,” Draco said.

Potter’s mouth became a tight line, his tone harsh. “My job—” His tongue swiped his lip, and he took a measured breath. “This is my job, Malfoy. You don’t owe me anything, but you could… not act like a bloody prat about this. I need this interview. I need to have it by November—” 

Potter shoved a hand through his hair. “Forget it.” The parchment groaned as Potter stuffed it into his bag. “I’m not doing this. Lovegood can get his own sodding interview.”

Darkness lengthened from where Potter stood. Black crept to the edge of Draco’s shoe as though his foot was a rock trapped on the shore by an approaching tide. It would consume him, drag him down until it buried him in silt and decay. Draco froze; the ache of tension crept up his bones, refusing to allow him movement. Two taps, five taps, three taps – the arrhythmic pulsing in his chest was the only part of him that moved. He couldn’t blink. Taking his eyes away from the shadow caused by Potter’s movements meant— 

Grating sounds, like sand scratching wood, echoed in Draco’s ears. He blinked rapidly, his eyes remaining on the floor. Where once had been an intricately-woven rug, a black hole seemed to gape. It pulsed under his gaze, grew, and Draco tried to pull away as he heard the breathing, felt the icy touch. He swallowed with difficulty. Fear sank heavily onto his shoulders, pinning him in place. Closer _it_ moved, mephitic breath ghosting across his face. It had a name, one Draco feared to acknowledge. 

He tipped his head back, lips slightly parted, and closed his eyes, wondering if he had a soul left or if they had taken it already.

The absence of light…

“…Malfoy?”

Draco’s head snapped forward; Potter stared at him expectantly, a strange expression on his face, one Draco remembered, but couldn’t place – sympathy? Worry? He narrowed his eyes. Potter had never evinced those feelings on Draco’s behalf before; now shouldn’t be any different.

“I’m sorry?” Draco looked at the floor quickly. Apart from Potter’s shadow, nothing was there. With a flick of his wand, Draco could make magic swallow the inky stains that Potter’s movements left on the floor, that almost reached out and touched Draco’s skin. His only protection: robes and willpower.

“I said, are you alright?”

Draco nodded.

“I’ll see myself out, then.” An impatient growl for the time he’d wasted. Puerile, and so like Potter.

Potter’s retreating back grew smaller as he opened the drawing-room door, and a sharp bang sounded as the swollen wood scraped the frame, rattling the portraits on the wall. They protested at Potter’s lack of manners, then sank into silence at a quick snap of Draco’s fingers.

Potter would return.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Dampened Embers -**

> Malfoy, 
> 
> I’ve been given an assignment to interview you for _The Quibbler_. 
> 
> I was told you’re living in Bath now, at an estate your family inherited. I’m in Cardiff until Tuesday next, but I’ll be there no later than 4pm, 15 August, to give you more information. If that’s inconvenient for you, send a reply with Horus. 
> 
> H. Potter

Potter’s handwriting came across the same way his speech did: impatient, like there was a price to pay for his attention. The familiar, disembodied voice of the spell enunciated the content of the letter. Intonation was quick, the inflection a lack-lustre grey inside Draco’s mind, where once had been bursts of ochre and saffron, cerulean and azure. All he had now were differing shades of grey. Sometimes it gave him reprieve from memory. Not often enough.

He wondered if the darkness lived in him as something that couldn’t be siphoned away or repressed.

Every curtain hung tightly together; a seam fortified by magic kept sunlight at bay, kept the shadows reined in. They trapped and defended him against the signs of life outside and inside the estate, like a suit of armour that sucked shadows into the hollowness of tempered bracers, helmets, and gauntlets. Protection. It was like living inside a wizarding photograph, the perpetual loop of events never breaking – until Potter had arrived. 

In the days since, Draco had only the company of his house-elf and the damning urge to alter the conditions he’d set for the interviews. The mixed feelings unsettled Draco. Potter had never given him cause to want to share the intimacy of friendship: Potter had rejected Draco’s hand in the first year, had been rejecting him since.

Even after Azkaban had drained Draco’s life away, wounded pride remained, along with greed for what he couldn’t have: Potter’s friendship. Against reason and logic, he still craved Potter’s regard. Sometimes he felt like he looked at the covers of books, but never read the words. Sometimes he felt that way about Potter: that Potter had taken a cursory glance and had decided who Draco was by looking at the mask, not the man.

Draco wanted Potter’s attention like he wanted to see colours again, to see past the darkness. 

Blindly, Draco flicked his wand at the parchment, silencing the continuous repeat of the letter. Potter’s voice was still irritating. But listening to it was better than talking to an empty room, and conversing with silence was better than admitting the need for something he dreamed about. It wasn’t weakness – to need; that wasn’t Draco’s problem. Potter was.

Age had changed circumstances; Draco was wiser now. The need he and Potter had was mutual – beneficial – even if for different reasons.

Potter would be back. Even Boy-Saviours needed gainful employment. 

News spread like an unexpected storm. Draco had heard from his mother about Potter’s inability to maintain a job – or a marriage to the female Weasley – while he himself had moved from one prison to another: Azkaban to the crumbling benighted house of some Black relative who had sired no heir.

The Bath estate was not a friendly place. Shadows clung to the corners. When the curtains swayed with a breeze that crept through the enchantments around the grounds, Draco felt cold dread run down his spine. His voice often stalled, as if a candle snuffed – the death of one weapon; his penance for his inability to keep his tongue between his teeth in his youth. Words were no longer the wand he’d once wielded without thought for the havoc they’d wreak. Their double edge to heal or hurt meant more; Draco understood that now. Accepting and acknowledging the lesson was difficult, when all he’d known was the power and pain of their sharp points. Delivered with a skilful tongue, they made an Entrails-Expelling Curse seem pleasant. But Draco had self-control now – bought and paid for ten times over. Enough tallow and wick remained to re-ignite what he’d given as reparations. Real or imagined danger would no longer exact a cost. Nobody, not even Potter, could make Knuts from blood.

Potter needed Draco. He’d be back. His stubborn refusal to co-operate with Draco’s request meant jeopardising what Draco had read in the _Prophet_ to be the fifth vocation Potter had attempted in as many years. Xenophilius Lovegood was mad, but not stupid. Potter had something that Lovegood found useful. It probably had to do with the Deathly Hallows and Potter being the master of the Elder Wand, or that he had survived the Killing Curse twice. Or that he had some insight into the afterlife. It clearly had nothing to do with Potter’s inability to do proper investigative research before writing what became a published article. 

But people followed Potter’s monthly column; his poorly-constructed prose sold more editions than the _Quibbler_ had ever sold before. Pity – Draco thought there was something pathetic and laugh-worthy about Potter working for such an outrageous publication. Fitting for Potter, who had always basked in the attention of the wizarding world, regardless how negative the press. 

Draco scoffed. If his mother hadn’t told him about Lovegood’s intentions, Draco would never have agreed to meet with Potter. Circumstances were labile if Draco gave this interview; his mother had been keen on the idea, had said it could redeem the family name. Draco had agreed, but knew that his mother’s motivations weren’t the same as his own. Her concern was the future of the Malfoy family with his father gaoled, and a son who appeared insane. No father would want his daughter to marry a man like Draco; but he knew his role: he was expected to give the family an heir, a burden of filial duty that he preferred not to fulfil. 

He was selfish.

Draco shook his head. It wasn’t too much to ask that he gain something for letting Potter humiliate him even more in the wizarding world. The public’s opinion of him was so low that an article about what he’d endured would matter as much as a fly knocked from the air mid-flight and trampled: easy to forget, easy to ignore. Suffering was subjective. 

Those who had been on the receiving end of Draco’s efforts for the Dark Lord thought he hadn’t endured enough. Draco knew; he was a clever man regardless of his madness. 

His father continued paying for his crimes, and his mother had received a full pardon for helping Potter – not bearing the Mark had given her freedom.

And Draco… five long years had passed for him, despite missing that bloody Mark on his forearm.

“Master,” came the squeaking voice of his house-elf. “Mister Harry Potter is in the green drawing-room.”

“Thank you, Hippy. Do serve our guest some tea. I want all the curtains opened in every room and a few feet between my chair and Potter’s.” Enough distance from the other man’s shadow. “And light those magical lamps.” It was all part of the routine now.

“Yes, Master,” the elf replied, and disappeared. Draco heard the pop no louder than the snap of fingers and waited for a few moments. Getting from one of the great run-down rooms to the next was always a challenge during daylight. Too many pieces of furniture – too many window frames to angle light, crosses between windowpanes, doors with their easily-removed protection. 

Draco stood ran his fingers across the bedside table, feeling the grit of old wood as he passed over it. When he reached the edge, he slid his hand to the wall and felt the paint, then counted the steps as he inched closer to the heavy door keeping him from the rest of the house. The texture of the wall changed, the ridges on the frame thickening under his palm. Draco stopped and sought the handle – closed his eyes. He twisted it, then pulled. 

Arranging the rooms had been tricky, but even with magic’s limitations, Draco had made it work. Everything in the next room had been placed to keep the shadows to a minimum. Nothing obstructed the door, or the path to the next room. The memory of yelling inchoate orders to house-elves skimmed the surface of Draco’s thoughts. Like Potter, they had looked at him oddly. And all Draco had wanted were the rooms arranged so that no shadows lay in any path he took. He made his way across the room, eyes darting to each side of him. Careful watch on the floors, windows – all of it – was important.

Living always in shadow was familiar. Being swallowed by the ones he couldn’t fight wasn’t an option. At least he could still feel. If he had to trade something, the ability to experience sensation over being able to discern whether he was staring at a blue or black robe was preferable. He’d got over the inanity of how he should look to curious eyes; they only ever saw one thing as their gazes swept over him anyway: a failed Death Eater unimportant enough to bear the Mark of the madman he’d served. 

If Potter’s letter had been cursed, it would have been a welcome change to the stagnancy that had occupied Draco’s waking hours for the last two months. Since he’d been a free man.

Potter helped in his own way. Stubbornly, he arrived at four o’clock every day - for a fortnight - asking Draco questions for his interview. But Potter hadn’t understood half of what Draco said during the initial talks; he’d constantly looked at Draco with a bewildered expression, repeating back a mesh of vowels, syllables, and diphthongs that sounded more like a child than an adult wizard speaking. Odd, when his thoughts always seemed clear to him. But subtle often made Potter flounder, though, as if he couldn’t connect the dots and their meanings, his mind like a dusty tome in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. 

Draco remembered that his mother had done the talking while she’d been a guest at the estate: he’d nodded in response, accepting her direction. All Potter had wanted was confirmation of things – war details Draco had repeated so many times his teeth itched thinking about them. Nods were acceptable until Potter started asking questions. To Draco’s relief, Potter had had to leave multiple times, cutting short their interviews after a strange chirping from his jeans, and holding a silvery block against his ear and talking to it. It made Draco wish he’d taken Muggle studies.

As Draco wrapped his robes tightly around himself, protection from potential shadows that the birds outside might cast, he looked through the large windows. The grass was a gloomy soot-colour that teased him with the memory of its former brilliance; like everything else around Draco, decay had become a constant companion. 

At the door that led to the green drawing-room, Draco stopped. “Hippy!” he called, his fingers wrapped around the handle.

“Yes, Master, how can Hippy serve?”

“All of the curtains need to be opened in the next room, and I want those enchanted globes spread around, too. No darkness, do you understand?” 

The elf disappeared with a muted _pop_. But assuming that Hippy understood the routine by now was too risky.

Five, four, three, two… Draco pushed the door to the green drawing-room open. Blinking at the brightness, he cast a clouded glance to where Potter sat, his lap full of crinkled parchment that had drips of ink on the corners. Some wizard. The ugly dots could be spelled away, the wrinkles flattened, but Potter let them be. He crossed one leg, his robe catching underneath his knee. Still completely oblivious to the rest of the world; he hadn’t noticed Draco walk in.

“Potter.”

Sprigs of hair like muddy grass shook as if shouldered by a breeze, and the contents of Potter’s lap fell to the floor.

“Bugger,” Potter muttered, reaching to the floor. “Christ, Malfoy, least you could do is make a bit of noise when you enter a room.”

Draco scorned Potter’s efforts to settle his disarrayed quill, parchment and various things one shouldn’t attempt to fit in such a small space of one leg overlapping the other. If balancing were a talent, Potter lacked it. Suppressing a derisive snort, Draco sat in the chair that Hippy had moved for him. 

“I only have an hour today – can we get on with it?” Potter asked.

“Is that your first question?” Potter’s lack of manners was appalling.

Potter scowled. “No, Malfoy.” He shifted in his chair, visibly re-asserting his self-control. “Look, I’ll explain why I’m here, then get on with the questions. This’ll take more than one meeting.” A frown. “I’d like to cover as much as we can today.”

With a nod, Draco waited. His right eye twitched. For a moment, he thought Potter had noticed, but he was too busy mucking about with everything in his lap.

Potter inhaled. “Right. You spent a week with a Dementor in your cell at Azkaban – I want to know what that was like.” He shifted the parchment to his other hand, then tapped it with his wand. It finally straightened out, casting a thick shadow on the floor as it hovered, mid-air. Potter poised the tip of the quill, which stuck to the roll like a magnet. 

Draco remained still, watching every movement. His entire body tensed as Potter’s shadows inched closer, then receded. 

Silence. Draco nodded, waiting, listening.

“I have to organise interviews from people on Voldemort’s—” Draco cringed, “—side of the war.” Potter looked away from his ready-to-dictate quill, the effulgent light of the room glinting off his glasses. “To publish.”

All Draco had to do was answer one question at a time. He’d get what he wanted in return. Even if Potter only confided in him for as long as this ridiculous thing took, Draco would still know what it might have felt like to be Harry Potter’s friend. He’d know what it felt like to have a conversation with another person again.

“Ahem.”

Draco blinked. “Have some tea, Potter.” 

“Thanks, but no. Shall we get started?” 

Potter’s foot tapped the floor, making his robe rustle, like he had something playing with the tatty selvage. Muggle trainers with dirty soles. Draco imagined the dirt they left behind and steeled himself not to shudder.

“Of course,” Draco said.

“Monday, 6 September 2004. Interview with Draco Malfoy. Age…” Potter dictated, his focus on the roll, and the quill began its incessant scratching across the parchment. Myriad details about Draco spread across the page. When Potter was finished, and the quill had stopped moving, he turned to Draco, the question poised on the tip of his tongue.

He shifted in his seat, then lifted his hand. “Tell me about Azkaban.” 

Draco’s eyes darted to the shadow Potter’s arm cut into the floor. “It was dark, cold, and damp.”

“Anythi—” 

“Ah, Potter, my turn,” Draco reminded him. 

Potter glared, clamping his jaw. “Go on, then.”

Draco paused, his gaze shifting to check that the parchment or Potter’s arm hadn’t moved closer. “Why did you come back?” 

An innocuous question, one bound to throw Potter. One to keep him from realising more difficult inquiries would follow.

“Because,” Potter said, “unlike you, I need my job. And when your editor tells you it’s either lose your job or answer the questions the interviewee wants, there isn’t much of a choice, is there?” 

Potter shifted again, his ethereal doppelgänger reaching out for Draco. Claws sharp as glass, and eyes like jet, sprang to life before Draco, and he shrank away; blocked by the chair. 

“No, I suppose not.” Forcing the vivid image he saw in his nightmares from his thoughts was difficult; but he managed. Playing tricks with his own mind had never been easy. “Tell me about your family,” Draco finally said, his urge to flee to the safety of his dark bedroom inching away like Potter’s oily twin.

“What? I haven’t asked you another question yet!”

“You have. You asked ‘is there?’ in response to your explanation. I would call that a question.”

An incredulous blink answered. “It was a rhetorical question!” 

Momentarily off balance, Draco’s eyes widened as Potter sat forward. There wasn’t enough light in the room to dispel the shadows, and Draco’s tongue felt like a Langlock Curse had been cast on it. None of the muscles in his mouth would work; his lips wouldn’t form words; and his reasonable side allowed panic to creep through his bones as though he were frozen to the marrow.

Draco counted. Five breaths later, Potter sat back with a scowl. “Fine, we’ll play this your way. My family? You want to know about my family? Alright. I have a son called James. He’s almost four.”

Whether Potter intended it or not, his quill raced across the parchment with every word he said. “I’m divorced. My ex-wife is Ginny Weasley. We’re still friends. My son lives with her.” 

“Now, did you spend a week with a Dementor in your cell when you were first imprisoned? The file I saw said you had.”

Draco nodded sharply; he couldn’t form the words.

“I need you to confirm it vocally, Malfoy, for the quill to dictate properly.”

Draco’s mouth opened; no sound came out. Where Potter seemed to have infinite words, Draco had silence. He inhaled. As he pressed the word ‘yes’ out, it scraped his throat dry.

Shaking hands and twitching lips accompanied the sinking of Draco’s stomach; fiery bile churned. If he weren’t so afraid of the shadows, he’d let them consume him. Convulsive swallows, a trapped breath. Draco steadied himself. Eyes closed, he tipped his head back and took a deep breath. 

“Malfoy… are you alright?” Potter asked.

Draco nodded.

Time swirled. Draco cracked his eyes open and looked at Potter, unearthing all he could from the laconic reply Potter had given to Draco’s first question. There was nothing but soil, no roots or foliage to identify why Potter’s marriage had ended.

“There are Pensieves for a reason. You don’t _need_ the quill to dictate everything.” When Draco had finally gathered himself, he asked flatly, “Why did you divorce Weasley’s sister?” 

It was the only question he could think of to discompose Potter. 

“She divorced me,” Potter admitted, his voice like rocks grinding together. “I wasn’t in love with her.”

Inclined to smirk, Draco remained composed. He wanted to know more. Potter was stubborn; he’d never tell anything more than he had to.

“Why did you spend a week with a Dementor in your cell?” Potter asked. His tone hadn’t changed; it still raked.

“I’m sure there are things even you can understand, Potter. One of them is that being gaoled is… not a bash in the common room after a Quidditch match.”

Potter waited. His silence invited Draco to continue, to let his words fill the distance between them. Draco remained silent. It had been unbearable in Azkaban. Darkness everywhere. He blinked and swallowed.

“I can’t answer that,” Draco said, at length. “Not yet.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Silhouette -**

Potter looked calmer. The wasted weeks must have been the reason for Potter’s hostility at their last meetings. At least Potter’s knee didn’t bounce an irregular cadence that made Draco want to reach out and clamp his fingers around Potter’s thigh any more. Every one of Potter’s movements cast more shadows, though.

“How are you today, Malfoy?” Potter sounded tired.

“Quite well, thank you.” Draco paused as he reached for his cup of tea. “You?” he asked, watching the muddy contents of his cup. It was a pity the pleasantries died the moment Potter unrolled his parchment and set the quill to its surface. Listening to Potter’s letters in the darkness of his bedroom had become a poor substitute for conversation.

“Fine,” Potter replied, looking up. “Do you mind if I ask you something – off the record?”

Draco nodded.

“Why are you co-operating now? You spent the last three weeks saying nothing that made any sense, and now you’re talking – well, clearly. What changed?”

For a moment, Draco considered that Potter lacked understanding of speech, but his mother had called earlier that week and had been astonished by Draco’s clarity. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter. What I said made perfect sense to me. Why do you ask?”

Potter pulled a roll of parchment from his bag and leaned forward, holding it out to Draco. 

Started by the movement, Draco shrank away. Nowhere to go: the back of the chair held him captive; the only way out meant standing. And that meant crossing Potter’s shadow.

“Hippy!” Draco called. The elf appeared obediently. “Take that parchment from Mister Potter and place it on the table.”

Bowing, the elf retrieved the roll from Potter’s hand, and placed it beside Draco’s tea. Draco stared at it, refusing to look at Potter. He didn’t want to see Potter’s face, the question Draco knew to be scrawled in his expression. Potter was easy to read, always had been; his pity couldn’t be dampened by the light, only amplified, straining Draco’s already fragile self-control.

Reaching out, Draco gathered the thick paper and unrolled it, reading the script. It surprised him how little sense a majority of the dictated lines made. He recalled each question – even his agreement to give the interview - but not the answers.

 _How long has it been since you were released from Azkaban,_ sat on the page, Draco’s response beneath it: _Two clocks._ Time, Draco recalled, had been on his mind, the length and brevity of life and situations. Perhaps he had been attempting poetic answers to mask the truth: he had forgotten how to have a real conversation. 

Notes in myriad shades of grey spanned the page. A Pensieve would have allowed Potter this level of detail about Draco’s posture and facial cues. Hardly germane nuances – Draco disliked the speculations printed like rock scratches on a wall underneath and around the neat script from the quill. He stifled a derisive snort, wondering when Potter had become an expert on the human mind. 

Blinking, he continued to read. When Potter had asked his age, Draco’s reply had been: _Three and twenty crows._ _Looking out window – no eye contact,_ had been scribbled underneath. Potter must have written them in directly after leaving. _Abrupt shifts in clarity. Depression induced? Consult Scamander on Dementors. Seems skittish – shrinks from movement, particularly toward himself._

Indignation rose, but Draco suppressed it as he read on. _My mother likes hats._ It was the oddest response Draco had seen yet, particularly to a question about why he wore winter robes in summer. Draco glanced at Potter, noting the wrinkled brow and tilted head.

“On the record – have you talked to anyone since you were released?” Potter asked, his tone soft, inviting.

Hesitation lasted only a moment before Draco answered. “To myself, and my mother occasionally.” 

In Potter’s lap, a stack of white parchment, full of straight, even lines, rested, and he held a cylindrical, compact quill that had no feather, scribbling a note. 

It was Draco’s turn. When alone, he wanted to know everything about Potter: good, bad, humiliating. But the moment Potter sat before him, Draco’s mind went blank as though one of his phantoms had Summoned his thoughts away.

“Why are you working for _The Quibbler_?” 

Potter glanced up from his odd-looking parchment, his lips thinning. Stubborn as always.

“Luna’s father asked me to. He thinks I have… insight.” Potter rolled his eyes, saying, “Whatever that means,” then cleared his throat. “Did you ever talk to any of the guards at the prison?”

“No.” Deciding to elaborate, Draco said, “Not often, rather. House-elves brought our meals; the only time we saw another person were cell inspections. When we were allowed letters from the outside, or quills and parchments to reply, we saw the guards; or if we were poorly. Otherwise, it was darkness.” 

Pulling his wand, Draco tapped the parchment Potter had asked him to read and Levitated it to Potter’s hand. Potter pushed it into his bag, waiting for Draco’s question. Again, Potter wore trainers with his robe, and it reminded Draco that he was curious about Potter’s life before Hogwarts. It was common knowledge that Potter had grown up with Muggles. But that life was mysterious to those outside of Potter’s circle of friends.

“What were your Muggle relatives like?” Draco asked.

Potter shifted in his chair, his brow furrowing. The corner of his lips sank as though pulled by a fishing line and then straightened. Opacity edged his features and changed them, a gradient like the moon rising into gloaming. A topic Potter found difficult apparently. Draco thought he had pushed too far when Potter’s expression became hard. 

He shifted, swallowed. “My aunt and uncle were…” He paused and looked at Draco. “If I answer, you have to tell me why you had a Dementor in your cell.”

Potter wasn’t hopeless after all; he’d learned how to give and take, and between them, Draco had the most to lose. He wondered if showing trust in Potter would get him more, fill the lack of knowledge Draco had about the boy – man – who had been his bane since birth.

The interviews had been going for weeks now, and Potter, while tempestuous and ill-mannered, had shown no reason for Draco not to trust him. Draco weighed and measured his options. Perhaps his only reason for not telling Potter was the potential of perceived weakness. Potter had been an Auror. If he really wanted the information, he could get it, and drill Draco about sleeping on a mattress bolted to the wall and eating food Draco wouldn’t wish on a Muggle. Either way, Potter would get what he wanted. _Typical._ Draco contemplated the ramifications of refusal: his mother would be disappointed, foremost – she’d made her views clear; if he planned to remain in the wizarding world, he’d have to humble himself, despite the weakness it implied. And Draco didn’t want to be struck off by his only remaining relative; more assumptions about the Malfoy family’s allegiance and contrition would be made if Draco didn’t seize this opportunity. But  
Potter’s childhood and Draco’s time in Azkaban didn’t even the scales. 

So, he nodded.

A flood of emotions covered Potter’s face: relief, determination, insecurity. Draco shifted in his chair. His gaze flitted to the floor.

“My aunt and uncle didn’t want me. Whatever you… think you know about who I was in school, I can tell you it’s not the truth,” Potter began. 

Draco listened to the narrative with detachment. He wondered if Potter thought his childhood was an excuse for rule-breaking and being the favourite of professors. Perfect Potter had been an a propos nickname. It seemed everything Potter had ever done at Hogwarts was dumb luck. He couldn’t even boast killing Voldemort. If there was a Felix constellation, Draco imagined that Potter had been born under it; that Potter’s parents had imbibed enough of the potion to meld it into Potter’s being. No one should be that lucky. 

Draco’s eye twitched; he blinked. The strain on his knuckles increased until he opened his fingers, feeling the throb of blood rushing back into them. Potter didn’t seem to recognise the blessed star he’d been born under.

Draco’s mouth soured; he reached for his tea. It had gone cold sitting on the table, irritating him. Knowing it was his turn, Draco took a breath.

“I was frightened,” Draco admitted with a bit more bravery than he expected. He closed his eyes and sought the words. Potter had given Draco the details of his youth, cupboard and all. Odd how they shared a knowledge of darkness and could relate due to something so simple. An absence of light, no path, uncertain of future and self, however brief, made them two sides of the same Sickle. Only one was tarnished and the other had been tended to and polished.

Blinking, Draco followed the movement of Potter’s foot, then spoke. “The Aurors thought I was Marked, and it didn’t matter that I wasn’t. Some had lost… family during the war or family had been injured. It was utter chaos. My cellmate was completely insane and wouldn’t leave me alone, and at the time I still felt entitled to freedom just because of who I was. They – the Aurors - put a Dementor in my cell to keep me quiet. I assume they thought it would Kiss me or keep them from having to deal with me…” Draco watched the floor as Potter’s foot shifted. “You know what being around them feels like, but I didn’t pass out like you do. I soiled myself in terror, and screamed until I thought my throat bled. I lost track of the days and wanted to die; wanted it to Kiss me.” Draco’s fingers itched to still Potter’s foot. Realising he’d said more than he wanted, he cleared his throat. “The Dementors were removed from the prison  
after that, when Shacklebolt became Minister. I was told it was a week, but I don’t remember. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he asked coldly.

Silence descended. Perhaps Potter felt like giving Draco a moment would take the memory away, make it stop, leaving a mere shadow across Draco’s thoughts. Self-preservation meant not crumbling under the fear of those dark puddles that seemed to ripple out and attempt to suck Draco down with the undertow. Draco had made it through worse than interviews with Potter; answering questions, asking them, when he’d always wanted to know these things, shouldn’t be this difficult. Being raised to best Potter in Quidditch and his studies, with a contradictory need not to be seen as hostile toward him, had been confusing for Draco, but he’d accepted it.

Until Potter had saved his life. 

“Why…” Draco began, then stopped. Potter gave him a piteous look; it steeled Draco’s resolve. “Why did you accept this assignment?” The question had already been answered, but Draco didn’t have anything else to ask. He needed to think clearly about what he wanted to know. How he could get the most from Potter.

“I explained that to you already. It was either interview you, or lose my job. Simple. There’s no other reason.” Potter sighed and checked his watch. “I have to go. I’ll see you…” He leaned forward and started moving things about in his bag, then pulled out a book. The pages flipped, Potter’s fingers careless as he turned them one after the other. “Tuesday next?”

Draco nodded. “Of course.”

“Right, then I’ll see myself out,” Potter said, packing away his things.

For a moment, there was no movement. Closely, Draco watched Potter stand and make to leave the drawing-room. He turned and looked back, shook his head, then left.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Flickering Light -**

During daylight, Draco sheltered himself in the darkness of his bedroom. In darkness, no shadow could creep up and steal him away. Magical fortifications stretched the length of walls, dipped under doors, and fanned into corners. Sometimes a glimpse of light would flicker when Hippy brought his meals, but he sequestered himself from light unless Potter was there.

Potter had asked if he could call more often. Draco had refused outright. A warning in Draco’s bones served as a shield when impulse betrayed reason. He wanted to know what the warning was for. Divining it was impossible; he’d have to answer for himself, and that posed more threat than solace. Draco didn’t want to dig into his mind and wade through the quagmire of darkness. There was enough shadow in his surroundings to make him hide. Within his own protections, nothing he didn’t want close could touch him. Nothing Potter said would break in, scour the surface of his walls to wear them down. Potter knew nothing about light and dark, not like Draco. Power, duplicity, anger, hatred – using one’s own children to achieve an end. Draco’s father had done it. Created a bigot and expected him to excel politically post-war, and while impossible to achieve, Draco’s father had demanded it. Then the conditioning of Azkaban and St Mungo’s had  
created something else; someone else. Having stripped Draco bare, they’d never put him back together. If asked, Draco would answer automatically that yes he’d been a coward, but that he’d been torn between his life and the lives of his parents. That he’d been torn between Voldemort and Dumbledore, who he had believed wanted him dead. Now Potter sat across from Draco and demanded answers to questions he had no right to; questions Draco never asked himself. 

At the appointed hour, Hippy knocked, and Draco came out of his bedroom only after a reminder of the curtains and lights. Potter stood, looking at the mantle above the fireplace. Draco stifled his irritation.

“Potter, good afternoon.” Cordiality shackled Draco in place. If he kept his tongue in check, Potter seemed to do the same. Rising to the bait and proving Potter’s misconceptions true was the last thing Draco wanted to do.

Potter turned. “Oh, hey, Malfoy. I was just… looking at your photographs.” 

Draco waited. Already he could feel sweat coating his palms, his body tremulous as he watched Potter take his seat, then begin pulling out his chosen trade tools. 

Time melted. 

“Malfoy? Alright?” 

Blinking rapidly, Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, quite alright.” He crossed to his chair and sat, ordering tea. Potter, flicking files aside, muttered into his bag. 

Curiosity got the better of Draco. He asked, “Tell me something, Potter: how many other interviews are you conducting?”

“Er, seven. You, your father, the Carrows, Goyle, and two guards from the prison.”

“My father?” 

“Yeah, Lovegood wants as many different viewpoints for the article as possible. You didn’t think it was just about you, did you?”

Draco sniffed. “Of course not,” he lied. However Potter had intended his words to sound, they still struck Draco. It had been an honest inquiry, but it felt as though Potter mocked him. Draco clenched his teeth.

“I wish,” Potter said, “that it was just you. I do like spending time with my son. Instead, I’m moving around the country and into Wales nearly every day, tracking down friends and family to get the whole picture.” He sighed. 

It was the first time Potter had let something slip without Draco having to ask for more information, and Draco supposed if he was silent long enough, Potter would continue, his need for an audience over-ruling sense. An apology came quickly after. Perhaps the unguarded statement had left Potter at a disadvantage, but Draco felt himself wanting more. A taste of Potter without the walls, to know who the man had become beneath the assumptions.

Potter looked up. “Nothing for you to worry about.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Draco said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” and shifted, accepting his tea as Hippy appeared. With the proper tone, Draco hadn’t belied interest. He waited for the inevitable. The same questions had been coming for weeks now; Draco knew Potter wouldn’t relent until he’d wrung the hardest answers from him.

“Do you still agree with what Voldemort was trying to do?”

Feigning disinterest, Draco took a sip of tea, ignoring the burn against his tongue as he swallowed. There were too many answers to Potter’s question. One wouldn’t suffice and would invariably lead to more questions along the same line. Draco debated the advantages of answering truthfully. Finally he said, “What I was taught by my father is not a personal belief I still hold, no. But I firmly stand by the belief that the wizarding world should remain separate from Muggles. They’re dangerous. We were lucky magic was effective in making most of them believe that what happened when V-V— Voldemort was in power was just a hallucination. And whatever I _used_ to believe is irrelevant.”

“So you don’t think pure-bloods—?” Potter shook his head. He scribbled a note on the white parchment with his featherless quill and waited.

Why picking at scabbed wounds came to mind, when Potter had been calm, Draco didn’t contemplate. The urge grew, bitter and uncompromising, until he demanded, “Why wouldn’t you accept my hand in school?”

Minute changes came over Potter’s face. An insipient blush, Draco supposed, at half-acknowledged guilt.

“I-I don’t know,” Potter answered. “I thought you were an arse. I felt sorry for you, the way you took having parents for granted. I still remember that day at Madam Malkin’s, listening to you prattle on about bullying your father into buying you a racing broom, and—” Potter glanced at Draco, then at the floor. “It was a lot of things. Like your need to impress me was more important than thinking about how I felt. You just expected me to like you. Everything had been new. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I grew up with that, you kn—” 

The question died appropriately; Draco would have considered it the next on Potter’s list.

“Point is, I looked at you and saw everything I loathed about my relatives. Then you just kept on, bullying and acting like a spoilt prat. Insulting Hagrid, then Ron, and telling me you could help _me_ wasn’t something I wanted to hear. And then the way you and Crabbe and Goyle used to act – I felt like it was wrong. I thought a lot of things were wrong then. Never about myself, though.”

“No, of course not,” Draco said bitterly. “No one ever could tell you anything.”

“If that’s what this is going to turn into, Malfoy—” A shadow moved across Potter’s face.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Potter. I have no intention of maintaining a school-boy rivalry. Neither of us is willing to part with our belief that we were the one in the right. I daresay you’ll decide one day I wasn’t evil and correct your misapprehension. For now, I’ll content myself with casting aspersions on your intelligence and wonder how it is that you could fail to see two sides to any story. And as I’m certain you’ve already seen, I’ve been thoroughly indoctrinated into believing I deserved everything I got.”

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

Draco scoffed. “And you’re just now realising this? No, don’t answer that. I think I’d rather save my questions for more pertinent details.”

“I don’t care what you believe about me, but just so you know, I do understand. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in your position, and I certainly wouldn’t have wished anyone into mine. I’ve read the transcripts, listened at your trial. I was there. Just like I was there when you couldn’t kill Dumbledore. Some things are nice in theory, but not in practice.” 

Potter looked at Draco, measuring him. 

Somewhere, a part of Draco surfaced that he had felt dead, and with all his will power, he had to shove it down. Potter’s expression brought to mind things Draco was better off without thinking or feeling.

He bristled. “I don’t want your pity, Potter.”

“I’m not pitying you. It was shit for both of us. If I hadn’t been more worried about what you were up to, I would have done… something. A coward would have given up. You didn’t. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Draco nodded, watching Potter’s mouth and throat as he drank his tea. He might not yet feel Potter’s contrition, but Draco wouldn’t scoff at his attempt. He’d won something in the exchange. No apology would come from him - Potter certainly didn’t deserve one tailored to fit. Draco had given that already to a public hell-bent on turning him into an example.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Moth to the Flame -**

“I’ve lived here since I was released from Azkaban,” Draco answered. “A few months. I could have gone to France or Germany, but nobody apart from my mother knows about this house. I wanted privacy.”

Draco took a sip of tea, watched the milk swirl in his cup when he pulled it from his lips. The muddy liquid sloshed, then settled when he put it on the table. 

_“What do you want?”_

Want – what did he want? To forget his father had forced him to do something that had nearly killed him. To forget Potter had saved his life, that his life amounted to more failures than achievements. To forget it all would be sublime. Only just below everything he wanted to forget, there was a bellicose impulse buried deep, reminding him what was missing.

Draco wanted. More than he could articulate, Draco wanted. The feeling had been growing for a fortnight. Unfamiliar urges, thoughts, had accompanied Potter. A need to fill empty space, to breathe in sunlight, to cast out the shadows. His ears burned to hear the timbre of another’s voice, to hear somnolent whispers in bed. Only he was alone, feeling like an emptied bucket, traces of familiar drops of water along the walls of warped metal. Soon they too would dry and leave nothing but their saline-like memory along a rusted and discarded container.

For someone who had never felt fullness, the desire to know it grew until he was helpless and it – _to what?_ – inundated his thoughts. Simple things came to mind: another’s touch, another’s voice. People had a presence. Their energy reached out to feel one another’s, seeking familiarity. Having been denied intimacy and companionship, Draco knew its absence. Solitude had felt like the way to cope two months ago, but having Potter close had changed that. His scent lingered; his voice resonated in Draco’s thoughts. Both were ubiquitous, and Draco deemed himself a traitor. He wasn’t supposed to like it – or Potter.

“What do I want?” he wondered. No answer came. “I want to… remember what it’s like not to be afraid. What do you want?” 

Chirps echoed off the walls; Draco spat an invective. 

Alone, he stood and hurled a spell at the curtains; they slammed shut, hooks and rod rattling from the force. He stormed into his bedroom, into the darkness. The niggling feeling that he needed Potter died as he slammed the door.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Birth of Light -**

It began the same as always. Draco’s mood hadn’t improved over the two weeks since their last meeting. Potter still refused to let him read the interviews with his father, or with anyone else. Potter’s suggestion had been for Draco to visit his father himself if he wanted to know.

Draco ground his teeth, despising his cowardice. Memories, so vivid his chest ached, of what the ground and open air felt like, drenched him – what being somewhere other than four walls and darkness felt like.

This – whatever it was – wouldn’t defeat Draco. He’d survived Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Azkaban.

He’d just answered one of Potter’s scripted questions, the list from prior visits growing longer still. Three more joined those crossed off on the page.

“Did you ever have to kill anyone during the war?” Potter asked.

“Directly or indirectly?” Draco asked.

Potter looked up. “Either.”

The answer was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, only he couldn’t speak. He had anticipated the questions getting harder, but this one made him feel off balance. “You’ve read the files. You know the answer already.”

Sighing, Potter said, “Yes, but I think it’s important to know the whole. The Ministry have decided to bury the files and transcripts. They believe it will benefit your reintegration into society – whatever that means. And… I want to know.” Honesty from Potter – a novel experience. It was the first time he had admitted to being curious about Draco personally. A strange hiccup in Draco’s chest accompanied Potter’s words. “Whatever I write, I’ll show you first. Promise.”

“That’s good of you,” Draco said. He wasn’t feeling charitable. Potter kept trying to engage him beyond the limits of the interview, which, while not comfortable, was rigid enough that Draco knew what to expect from it. Upsetting the balance as it stood would make the warring feelings harder to shove aside.

Potter waited. He seemed to have finally learned patience.

“Indirectly… yes.” Faltering for a moment, Draco regained his composure and looked at Potter. “I’ve seen many killed. I never killed anyone, though. As you so kindly pointed out at one of our previous meetings, I couldn’t kill Dumbledore. I would have been in Azkaban longer.”

Nodding, Potter murmured, “That’s good,” and sighed, in what sounded like relief. Draco saw the pity in Potter’s expression and his eyes narrowed. A single-minded urge to hurt Potter rose within him. Pity was for the weak. Draco wasn’t weak.

“What’s the real reason you’re no longer an Auror, Potter?” Draco looked at the silhouette cast by Potter’s broad shoulders on the floor. Something inside the shadow danced that he could feel in the marrow of his bones, something that called to him, mocked him. The candles flickered dangerously, their flames reaching out as though bidden by Draco’s hand. He felt the fire knew him then: always chasing away shadows. 

“I’m _not_ telling you that.”

“We made an arrangement. If you cannot – or will not – abide by it, then the terms have been broken, and there’s no need to continue these useless interviews. I shall leave it up to you to make the decision.” Draco paused; looked up at Potter. “Quid pro quo.”

Anger flared in Potter’s eyes. “Ginny doesn’t even know the truth about that, Malfoy.”

“I’m touched.” 

Potter’s jaw flexed. “He— Someone—” He stopped, his eyes darting to the floor. “My wand— it never worked properly for me after the war,” he admitted, his teeth like a mortar grinding herbs. “Ollivander refused to make me a new one. Said I could be the Master of the Elder wand if I chose. That my old wand would never respond the same way. And it didn’t. Simple spells— Nothing worked precisely. I kept trying to work around it, but… Too proud to tell my boss.” He was silent for a long time. “My partner died. He was killed by a Death Eater.”

“Weasley was your partner, was he not?” The blades of the words slashed Potter deeply; Draco could almost see the blood seeping through his chest.

“Yes,” came the tight reply.

“And you believe his death is your fault?” Draco asked.

Potter shifted, his eyes like nacre broken as they met Draco’s unflinching gaze. “It was.”

After a long silence, Draco cleared his throat. “Excuse me for a moment, Potter.”

Looking around his chair for darkness, Draco stood, averted the oblong sinkhole and left for his bedroom.

Distance – he needed distance from Potter.

The door was cool against his back. He shuddered, inhaling and exhaling rapidly as his mind wrapped around what he’d just seen. For the first time in five years, Draco had seen something other than shades of grey. The lump in his throat ached as he swallowed. He had to quash the hope that he hadn’t imagined it. Five years had passed, five years of darkness and isolation. Now, after weeks with Potter, something that looked like life teased Draco.

Unfamiliar sympathy tightened around him, made him a prisoner to desire. It was all too much: a glimpse of colour - feeling _something_ for Potter.

Draco took deep breaths, trying to suppress the tremble in his hands. He closed his eyes, extinguishing the stray light from underneath the door. 

It wasn’t real. 

The colour had been his imagination, like seeing Dementors reaching out when the curtains moved.

It wasn’t real. Draco convinced himself it wasn’t. 

With a deep breath, he turned and took the door handle, and returned to the drawing-room. He forced himself not to close his eyes as he walked to his chair.

Potter’s expression still bled his emotional wounds. The scars of his heart were visible, so clear.

Then he saw it again.

 

[](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v610/ambermonarch/DracoInShadow.jpg)

 

The soft rainbow of colour, the tinge of green in Potter’s eyes, moved around Draco, then plummeted into him, filling him, as though he was the waiting pool at the bottom of a waterfall. It became hard to swallow. His eyes burned, and Potter looked at Draco, confused.

Colour. However minimal, Draco saw colour.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Blind Lead the Blind -**

For days, Draco only sat in his bedroom. Where once everything had looked like a saturated rainbow, tiny sparks of colour teased him now. Keeping his eyes shut meant no false hope, so Draco kept them closed, but he didn’t sleep. He thought about Potter’s belief that Weasley’s death was his fault and how it couldn’t have been. If it had been, Potter would have been in Azkaban. Not even he could avoid sentencing for that sort of negligence. _Could he?_ Perceived guilt didn’t mean it had been Potter’s fault, though.

Again an unfamiliar tightening in his chest came. Draco relaxed and tried to ignore it. But thoughts of Potter continued. An ache accompanied every breath. Finally Draco turned on his side and tried to sleep.

He wanted peace for a while.

None came.

When Hippy announced Potter’s arrival, Draco rose and felt his way to the door. He gave the usual order to have the globes of light spread out and the curtains opened. 

Potter smiled as Draco entered the green drawing-room. Draco blinked at the odd flutter in his stomach. The same colour he’d seen at their last meeting made him pause en route to his chair. Draco’s feet became lead. His throat tightened, and relief flooded him again. Normality stared back at him from Potter’s eyes, something void of taint or darkness. He took a breath and forced his feet to move. Five steps still; he urged himself forward. Two steps. The garden caught Draco’s attention – the evergreen sprigs against brown and grey branches - and he turned his head, delayed, like his puppeteer hadn’t caught up. 

For a moment, Draco was weightless, then speed returned to normal, and he reached out, catching himself on the arm of his chair. Shuffling sounded beside him, and the weight and warmth of hands pressed against his back and arm.

“Malfoy, are you alright?”

Dazed, Draco looked up, felt himself sinking into Potter’s eyes.

“Malfoy?” 

Hearing his name again and again, like a beam of sun, de-thawed the harsh ice in Draco’s knees. He jerked free from Potter’s hold and stumbled to the middle of the room, where there was space between them.

“Malfoy, look, I didn’t—”

“Shut it,” Draco said, his voice like a blunt knife.

“But—”

“Potter, the world does not revolve around you, despite what you might believe. Do _not_ lay your hands on me, do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Potter, if you ever learn anything from these meetings, it’s that _listening_ often achieves better results than _speaking!_ If I wanted someone to touch me, I would invite them to. Nod if you understand.”

Dumbstruck, Potter nodded and backed away until his knees buckled against the edge of his chair. 

“I’m sorry, Malfoy, I just— I was trying to help.” Potter’s face became a rock. Whatever self-control he had kept him from lashing out. 

Draco didn’t care. Potter had no right to presume Draco wanted his help. Irritation rose within him and replaced the panic from before; Draco wouldn’t explain himself to Potter or anyone.

Potter exhaled heavily. “Maybe we should... take a moment to… clear our heads. Something.”

“If you like,” Draco said curtly. Draco retreated to his bedroom. Potter could wait all evening; it didn’t matter. Draco didn’t care if his experiences before the war, after the war, or during Azkaban were ever told truthfully any more. All he wanted was to go back to sleeping properly at night, and not think about bloody Potter. He wanted to stop _hoping_ he had a future beyond the walls of the house.

Draco closed the bedroom door and shut his eyes, still seeing Potter’s green ones in front of him. The man who’d rejected him over a decade ago seemed to have grown up. _When?_ Had it been before his marriage failed, or when he’d had a child? Placing the events and stacking them against Potter was like fighting a labyrinth: nothing was ever as it seemed, and every direction led to something other than the answer. At least when the pathways weren’t marked. There had to be tells where the openings lay. Draco would find them.

Taking deep breaths, Draco forced his irritation away. It’d been so long since Draco had felt anything apart from fear, his irritation with Potter ached. When breathing became less a chore, Draco straightened his robe and turned in the darkened room, reaching for the handle. They were nearly done with the interviews; soon Draco could get on with living or dying, whichever came first. 

Draco twisted the brass in his palm and pulled, with his eyes closed. His wrist, where Potter had touched him, tingled. He reached, feeling his fingertips connect, pressing and rolling skin across bone. Had he really lost so much weight that muscle and flesh felt no more protective than parchment?

Memories, like fading sleep, blanketed Draco. Draco didn’t have to see his hand to know where Potter had touched him. His mother had once held onto him, cradled and comforted him as a child. Once, he’d known the awkward touches of an adolescent girl. But never had Draco desired to ignore the need to wash his skin just to savour the sensation still buried in his hand and wrist.

Draco rested his head against the door and released his hold on the knob. Potter’s apology wrapped around him like Potter’s hands had. If that was the warmth of another person, Draco wanted it. To see and feel security after being adrift for so long made Draco tremble. He braced himself against the cool wood and dug his fingernails into the grain, letting the splinters wedge between his emotions.

Draco’d had to prove his ability to endure. During the war, he’d managed, despite the sickness he felt; during his interrogations and imprisonment, he’d done so, without thought for anything but survival. Now he had to make it through Potter, this version of a man Draco found he liked having around, who brought colour and a spark of something Draco’d dreamt about, but never sought for himself. 

Thoughts like whispers sent chills down his spine, and as he centred himself, let reality slip back into his mind, he uncurled his fingers, flattening them against the door. Draco would beat the desire, if it was the last thing he did.

Many breaths later, he finally stood straight and reached for the knob again. As he left his bedroom, Draco strode confidently through various rooms until he reached the green drawing-room doorway. He stopped when Potter wasn’t there. His bag still slumped on the floor, so he had to be around still. 

He caught sight of movement in the garden. Within seconds, what he thought were birds, became clear and he saw Potter pacing with a hand against his the side of his head and his mouth moving.

Draco blinked, remaining still, as he watched. His curiosity rose and he measured the consequences of crossing to the window to learn more. Taking a step, Draco paused and reminded himself of the shadows. He clenched his jaw and stared at Potter, at the quick gestures and resigned expression. Then he looked at the open glass door to the garden. If he was going to hear Potter, he had to beat his fear.

With reluctance, Draco took another step, then another, until he stood behind the glass and the large cross of metal between the windowpanes. He took a few unsteady breaths, reminding himself he was in the light, that the shadows couldn’t do anything to him. The steady thumps in his chest became faster, and Draco blinked rapidly, willing his legs to move. But he remained frozen, unable to shift his gaze back to Potter.

“Malfoy?”

Draco’s head snapped to the side and he backed away from the window.

“Are you alright?” Potter asked, his head cocked.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” Since when had Potter become so astute that he noticed distress that didn’t belong to him? His apology not withstanding, Potter had only begun to speak to Draco as a human being recently, and even then, their conversations were simply fodder for Potter’s story. 

With a wave of his hand, he ushered Potter to take his seat again. They’d already wasted enough time, and while Draco had no pressing engagements or plans, it was the principle that mattered. 

Potter got too close as he turned to go to his chair, forcing Draco to lean back. He stifled his growing irritation at his reaction. Only moments ago, he’d been keen on Potter touching him again, and he’d even have endured a shadow to know that heat. But now the thought of Potter getting that close again made him uneasy. He wanted it too much, something he knew could be disastrous if he didn’t tread carefully. 

After a few deep breaths, Draco took his own seat again.

Potter tapped his parchment with his wand, then his quill, and the interview began as always. 

“Do you blame your father for what happened to you?”

Blame fell on more shoulders than Draco could name. Still, Draco said, “How can you place blame for something when you don’t know any differently? I was raised in it, Potter. Would you have argued with your parents if they’d taught you all pure-bloods are evil? No, you wouldn’t. You’d have listened, and taken it all in, just like I did, and you’d have accepted it like I did. Everything after – it was all about surviving. If I’d given up, we’d have all been dead. You know what that sort of responsibility feels like. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

Potter nodded curtly. 

“Yes, I thought you had. Did you ever ask yourself what would have happened if your parents had lived?”

Watching as Potter processed the question was amusing, though Draco gave no outward sign of watching Potter flounder. 

“I’ve no idea. Don’t think I haven’t realised I was the reason for their death. But if they’d lived…? I have no idea. I wouldn’t have lived with Vernon and Petunia, and I’d have known about magic before I turned eleven. Would it have been better? I don’t know. I hope it would have been. But I learned a long time ago not to piss away my life on dreams.”

Draco hummed. “I might have met you sooner than that day in Madam Malkin’s. Do you know, I didn’t actually know who you were.”

“Really?” Potter sounded surprised. “Would it have mattered?”

“Would _what_ have mattered?”

“If you had known? Would you have still been an arse?” Potter grinned.

“An arse? You mean I didn’t act like one of the idiots you were used to dealing with.”

“No, you were an arse. Who the hell brags about bullying their bloody father into buying them a racing broom?”

Draco glared half-heartedly. Obviously Potter believed his conversation to be light and amusing. It was anything but to Draco. He wondered whether him and Potter were doomed to seeing eye to toe, always getting their positions mixed. Then he wondered if that mattered and quickly dismissed the thought as Potter’s tongue swiped his bottom lip.

“Always have to be better, don’t you, Potter?” 

“Better? What are you talking about?”

“Judging people. You detested the fact that I judged Muggle-borns, Muggles, and half-bloods in school, but you did the same thing. You just think you were better; your prejudice wasn’t genocide. But to look at someone who took pride in their lineage, now that was a _bad thing_ , wasn’t it?”

Why Draco thought he and Potter could have a conversation and have Potter admit _his own_ mistakes, Draco didn’t know. It was as useless as trying to trap water in his hand and less edifying than reading the _Prophet_.

For a moment, Draco thought Potter would leap from his chair, but he remained seated. 

“It’s the past, Malfoy.”

Draco ground his teeth together. It was just like Potter never to take responsibility for his actions and words. And to contradict himself.

“Hmm. And I suppose that means as long as no one disagrees with you they’re fine,” Draco said.

“What? I never said that!”

“But you don’t dispute the fact that you fail to see more than one side to things before you make judgements.”

“What are you on about, Malfoy?”

Draco smiled tightly. “You were under the impression that I was an arse in Madam Malkin’s, but I didn’t know any differently. The way I treated you was perfectly acceptable to me and the way I’d been raised. But you don’t agree with it, so of course it was wrong. Yours is _the_ only opinion that matters. You did always have a selective moral compass.”

Hippy popped into the drawing-room. “Master Draco, dinner is ready.”

Potter shook his head. “I don’t— You’re talking about things that happened – what? – more than— If you—”

Draco faced his elf. “Thank you, Hippy.” He looked at Potter packing his things away. It was too soon for Potter to go. Draco wasn’t ready to be alone, to go back to his corner of darkness just because Potter thought there was no reason to stay. Or at least that Potter thought there was no reason. “Potter…” he began, “…would you like to stay for dinner?” Potter blinked, his brow furrowing. “If you have no other engagements.”

Potter nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“Good. We can continue our conversation.” Draco looked at his elf. “Hippy, serve our dinner in here.” 

The elf disappeared with a bow, and Draco looked at Potter again, wondering how long before the debate continued, and whether Potter would think about how his actions had impacted Draco’s life. Pointing it out would only serve to put them more at odds. It wasn’t important, though, not when he was finally getting what he’d been wanting. 

“You know, I’ve been wondering, what exactly do you want to do with yourself, now you’re out of prison?” Potter asked, checking his bag before looking to Draco.

Of the questions Draco had expected – more about his family and father - that wasn’t one of them. “That’s not about the war, Potter.” Not much of what they’d said that evening had been, though. Not specifically.

“I know.” He paused, then said, “But I’m curious.”

Humming, Draco looked at Potter. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, apart from get through each day. Finally he answered, “Take my NEWTs, perhaps. I don’t have to work; my family made sure there is plenty of money for me, and properties.” Draco gestured, but stilled. “I like potions, but I haven’t the hands for it.” Not to mention that being unable to see the colour of the potion made it pointless when discerning hues and shades was integral to the art of potion-making. “For now? I don’t know. I suppose first I’ll complete my NEWTs, then I can pursue other endeavours in the wizarding world.” 

But Draco didn’t think he’d be pursuing other things. The thought of going from room to room nearly paralysed him; leaving the house… Draco shuddered and shoved aside the prospect at terrifying himself to death by pushing too far. In the house, where he could control things, he was safe. Taking his NEWTs meant going to the Ministry, or even Hogwarts.

Draco cleared his throat, again snuffing his thoughts, waiting for Potter to stop drumming his fingers on his knee.

Potter nodded, a pensive expression on his face. “Politics?”

Draco narrowed his eyes and said firmly, “No.” His father may have wanted that, but Draco had no interest in politics. There was only one way to go in those circles, and Draco had been at the bottom once – one time too many; no more would he let another person define his importance or worth based on how many arses he kissed. 

One master had been enough for his lifetime.

Draco’s path lay in his hands – no one else’s. Whatever choices he made now were his and that included deciding to follow someone while still maintaining his autonomy. He wouldn’t be Draco Malfoy, Death Eater; he’d just be Draco for the first time in his life, and if he decided someone deserved his devotion, fear or duty wouldn’t be the driving factors in his choice. 

He was worth more.

A _pop_ , signalling Hippy’s arrival forestalled their conversation briefly, but Potter, apparently unable to do anything without hearing himself, continued to talk. Draco found the cadence of Potter’s voice welcoming. The irritation from their conversation seemed to have faded, and now they sat, eating and talking amicably about whatever crossed Potter’s lips before his brain caught up and reminded him that not all topics were suited for a person he barely knew. 

It was carelessness on Potter’s part, in Draco’s opinion. To give away all of one’s thoughts without contemplating the consequences was a freedom he envied, one Potter probably took for granted and never realised how vulnerable it left a person. It didn’t matter, though. Being a part of it allowed Draco to experience it, too. It was just like Potter to give light and take it away, forgetting it was needed still, that even when there were no words to ask for it, it was desired; just like Potter, with every imperfection.

Perfection was overrated, though. Nothing was pure, and Draco knew that – not intentions or blood or people. Briefly each week, though, Draco had a taste of it. Stumbling over words and meanings with Potter, he got glimpses of something more than the impossible need to please, and let himself feel pleasure.

Potter’s serene gaze settled on Draco as he spoke of his son and the lessons he’d learned in patience and acceptance, things he admitted that he wished he’d learned long before. Draco was incapable of admitting the same verbally. 

Instead of an apology, he smiled. It must have been enough; Potter responded in kind.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Cracks in the Surface -**

Memories took shape in Draco’s thoughts as he looked at the winter garden. The sky, heavy with impending rain, grew darker, and Draco, unable to continue testing himself, took a heavy step back, as though his knees were frozen branches. With one wrong move, he’d tumble to the ground and find himself shattered. But he persevered, as with everything else, and flicked his wand, casting a short spell, at the globes around the drawing-room. Around him, like being surrounded by faded jewels, the walls came to life, their green, paler than Potter’s eyes, brightened and made the room feel like a slow walk.

Though his heart beat as if protesting, Draco ordered Hippy to close the curtains, and took his seat. Each inhalation was measured, a way to release the tension from his limbs. Every meeting with Potter pushed him off balance more. A week never felt long enough to regain equilibrium, but it gave him plenty of time to think, learn more about Potter and understand who Potter had become. Why Potter had been a hypocrite in school. Why more than ever, Draco’s thoughts of Potter were strong enough to choke him like potion fumes.

After much thought, Draco had decided the past was an island: isolated and far enough away that it mattered little to his current life. He’d lived through those things already; the obstacles he faced at present weren’t Dark Lords and rivalries with other boys.

Draco shivered. No, he had darkness and the inability to leave the house, let alone the estate. His mother would come to him if she wanted to discuss the future of the family. Draco doubted there would be one, but she insisted. What she asked for wasn’t unreasonable, but Draco thought he deserved time to get on his feet again; he felt taking his time should be respected.

Chimes announced the hour.

Draco glanced at the clock, wondering what kept Potter. No owls had come to change the routine, and Draco was certain Potter had said he'd be returning the last time they'd met. He supposed it could be wishful thinking. They’d had their troubles during the interviews, but Draco had thought, despite their differences, a mutual understanding had been reached. And in the traitorous part of his mind, where the shadows didn’t reach, desire for Potter continued to grow. It was different from his adolescence, but the emotion was still there, hiding beneath the rubble of his life before Azkaban. 

Five minutes passed before Draco knew it. Only the ticking of the clock and Draco’s breathing could be heard. The clock’s hands continued to chase each other, always behind and ahead. Time meant little to Draco; the concept still resonated clearly, but he didn’t care for having to do things on a schedule: one of the perks of freedom.

If Potter had decided not to call, he could have at least sent an owl. It was rude to keep someone waiting. But Draco had time in abundance. Bitterly he thought he’d been right, that Potter felt his own time was worth more than others’, more than Draco’s. He ground his teeth and shifted, disconcerted by how much Potter’s inconsideration rankled. 

He’d always wanted too much from Potter.

Draco requested a glass of brandy and let his mind wander. At its appearance, he took a drink and closed his eyes, seeing two vibrant rings of green. Never had colour tasted so alive to Draco. The lack of seeing it at all for the last few years must have made him forget what it had been like before, because now seeing colour meant a plethora of scents and tastes to accompany it, as though he was meant to savour it. Then he drank, his mouth warmed by the alcohol lying on his tongue. 

When his glass was empty, Draco ordered another. Each drink became a thought, a feeling, a memory: Potter’s mouth shaping words; his voice as he fought for self-control; the way his hair crooked and stood like roots. Details Draco hadn’t noticed before became clear. Potter’s lips were thin, and full of colour. They had seemed so dark before, but now to look at them, Draco saw enticing lines that danced poorly when Potter spoke. 

Draco raked his teeth across his bottom lip, feeling the drag of slicked enamel against it. There pleasure grew and heightened when he stuck out his tongue and wondered what kissing Potter might be like: fast, slow, a fight for dominance? Or would it be sloppy and distracted, as Potter had been throughout school? 

Then he imagined what Potter would feel like on top of him, what Potter inside him would feel like, how Potter touching him would feel. If that happened, Draco would be drenched in Potter’s shadow, be consumed in darkness and unable to hold on. 

Or let go.

The idea had merit. Arousal shot through him, and he dropped his hand to his lap to adjust his cock. Touching the evidence of Potter’s effect on him made him shudder. He swallowed, panted, let the desire wash over him – he was powerless to it anyway. Powerless to wanting Potter.

A _pop_ sounded just as the drawing-room door opened. “Malfoy— sorry I’m late. I had to wait for Gin to pick up James.”

Light exploded as Draco opened his eyes. He turned to look at a smiling Potter, watched him fade to nothing, then become his usual patch-work self in rapid succession. “It’s perfectly alright, Potter,” said Draco. “Please, do come in.”

His eyes wide, Potter looked around, studying the room. “You closed the curtains,” he said, and crossed to his chair.

Draco nodded. There was enough light to keep the shadows at bay.

“Er, I thought since this was the last interview, we could just… chat. If you want to add anything, that’d be brilliant, but I think I’d rather know what you don’t want in the article.” Light red accented Potter’s cheeks.

That surprised Draco. “As you like,” he said, shifting. “I’m not sure there is anything else to add.”

Potter nodded, his gaze landing on Draco’s glass. “Do you mind if I have one?”

“By all means.” Draco directed Hippy to serve Potter and waited.

“I’m really glad this is over. I’ve been sorting the information and I’ve pages and pages—” Potter paused. “Sorry. It’s not really important, is it?” He cleared his throat. “Look, I never did thank you for this, so… thanks. The wizarding world needs to know some of this. Whether they’re ready to listen or not… we’ll find out.”

Draco finished his drink; a reminder remained in his throat as it filled again. Indulgence hadn’t been part of his life for some time, and listening as Potter went on, Draco found it helped soothe the rise of frustration. Potter was so foolish sometimes. 

If Potter thought Draco had done the interview for altruistic reasons, though, he was mistaken. Draco couldn’t care less if the wizarding world understood his side of things. Not that they would. A brand was a brand, regardless if their eyes could see it; assuming it was there was enough to make Draco evil and corrupt, the very thing the Ministry worked tirelessly to rid their world of. But it wasn’t _their_ world, not the wizarding collective – no, it belonged to those who fought for it, the law-makers, and the Muggle-lovers. Those who braved the edge of the knife, believing one thing, but presenting the face of another, remained in the fringes.

Like Draco.

Potter hadn’t commented on Draco’s sentiments, which he appreciated. Draco wouldn’t explain himself or his reasons further. Keeping his tongue between his teeth proved he’d grown up, though. As they all had, he supposed. Not that he intended to find out.

Gradually, with the hum of Potter’s speech and brief words in response as he drank more, Draco’s sight became like soot-edged glass. He rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly. His heart thudded, his inhalations becoming stronger and faster, deeper, as he struggled to breathe. It felt like nothing entered his lungs, though, and he gripped the arms of the chair, digging his fingers in as he looked around.

Everything appeared as though his eyes were a lantern, its flame being buffeted by wind. Soon there would be no colour, no light. Draco didn’t want to be in darkness again.

Black fingers grew from the table leg and caressed the rug. 

They reached for Draco’s feet.

He pushed his chair back.

The shadows couldn’t have him. He wouldn’t fall to them. He’d got away from them; managed some peace, and now it was shattering.

He had to get away; needed his room, more air. The stench of brandy and putrid breath seemed to replace oxygen, and Draco stood, lunging toward the door of the drawing room. He wanted the safety of his bedroom, somewhere familiar; a place to close his eyes and— 

Draco had no idea, just that he needed to get away. 

“Malfoy, are you—”

 _Expecto Patronum_. _Expecto Patronum_. _Expecto Patronum_.

Nothing happened as Draco closed his fingers around the doorknob and twisted and jerked. He shuddered, trying to find sanctuary. Then fingers curled around his arm and pulled him, like a fish from a stream, into emptiness.

Draco tried to pull away, but Potter kept his hold; his grip was unrelenting. They jostled, tangling up in one another like wind-whipped vines; then hit the floor and each other, digging elbows and knees into one another. Scrabbling, Draco tried to reach for the door again, but Potter wouldn’t let go.

Trapped in shadow Draco squeezed his eyes closed and gasped for air. Every kick and jerk proved useless. 

Memories of being in his cell washed over Draco, how he’d been encased in shadows and fear by the Dementor’s presence. Since then, nothing had been the same. He hadn’t been the same.

Draco swallowed, feeling his heart drum against his sternum: ten – he wasn’t afraid; fifteen – there was nothing to fear; twenty five—

“Shh, Draco, it’s alright,” accompanied a constricting hold that Draco squirmed to get away from. The floor didn’t yield, neither did the flesh and bone trapping him. “Draco,” came the voice again. “It’s alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Draco felt like he was floating. With nothing to anchor himself, he shook; he’d become nothing more than smoke.

“Nothing to be frightened of. You’re safe. You’re home; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Potter’s voice sounded like water and sunlight, so calm and refreshing that Draco drank it in; basked in it. Being like that, hearing reassurances that he hadn’t known he’d desired before, Draco felt safe. No bars or lock could keep the fear at bay, but there, in Potter’s arms in the floor of the green drawing-room, Draco wanted not to be afraid.

“Just breathe. You’ll be fine,” Potter said.

Fingers glided through Draco’s hair, moving it back from his face. He couldn’t open his eyes yet. Not and see Potter and feel the humiliation any more keenly than he already did.

“Draco? Are you alright?”

Slowly, Draco nodded, and steeled himself to open his eyes. _Deep inhale_ \- but still he couldn’t do it. Finally he forced it, and immediately saw two vibrant rings. He inhaled, but the air snagged; left his lungs again.

Draco swallowed; then began to speak, but Potter leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s. Skin mashed against teeth, and Potter’s glasses dug into Draco’s face. He thought to pull away, but he couldn’t. This he had wanted, had fantasised about enough that refusing the offer would be stupid. After that night, Draco wouldn’t see Potter again; he’d have time enough to forget desiring such a careless, selfish git.

One night of indulgence wouldn’t harm him. When he woke, he could tell himself it was a dream, that he hadn’t felt the brilliance of tasting Potter’s mouth, or felt safe wrapped in Potter’s arms.

He accepted the kiss and liked the way Potter’s tongue demanded his in return. It had been too long since Draco had felt anything like this. It was freedom. He forgot to care that Potter moved his arms and rolled Draco onto his back, or that he tried and failed at not clinging to Potter’s back as a knee worked between his and the start of his erection was trapped between his and Potter’s bodies. No attempt to overwhelm Draco came – not from Potter. Just a slow kiss and hands that touched the right places.

Having lost control over everything, Draco felt himself fracture. Then, with Potter’s weight, what was left of him dropped.

A moment or an hour could have passed and Draco wouldn’t have known. The only important thing was the way he felt. The surge of unfamiliar sensations electrified him and made his face feel too hot. He wanted to roll his hips and feel more than the infrequent thrusts of Potter’s hips.

The rush wore off, the kisses slowed, until they gave and took breathless moments between them. Potter ran his fingers through Draco’s hair, whispering before kissing Draco again. He smelled like brandy and soap, and a stubbled shadow spread across his chin and jaw. This felt better than Draco wanted to admit. If Potter knew it, he thankfully kept his mouth shut. Words would ruin everything, particularly when there was nothing left to say – at least Draco knew nothing more. 

But it was too good to be true. Flushing brilliantly, Potter rose, made his whispered apologies, then stood.

Draco remained on the floor for a heartbeat more. A sense of incongruous longing passed quickly. Potter had been the one to drag him down at the outset, been inconsiderate enough not to let him go when he’d needed to.

Once Potter left, though, that would be it. None of the rest mattered.

“I’ll show you out,” Draco said after standing. He righted his robe and approached the drawing-room door.

“Malfoy – Draco… wait.”

Draco paused. “Yes, Potter?”

“I don’t have to leave yet. I could stay.”

The offer was like being handed Amortentia, so tempting. Dangerous. 

“No, I don’t think so.” He spoke louder this time. “You finished your job.”

Potter sighed but didn’t argue, again surprising Draco. “Alright. Goodnight, Draco. It’s been a pleasure.” Potter extended his hand.

Disbelief shot through Draco, but proper manners made him clasp Potter’s hand in his. It was too warm, the touch too long, but not long enough, and while Draco didn’t have the ability to say it had been a pleasure, he agreed. But it still wasn’t enough.

Rather than give in, Draco let his hand fall.

Potter stood awkwardly before Draco, looking forlorn. If Draco hadn’t better self-control than in his youth, he’d have given in and let Potter stay, just to have one night of the things he wanted. Somehow Potter had worked his way under Draco’s skin, but a kiss didn’t mean Draco’s desire was reciprocated. He was master enough of his emotions not to involve himself with someone out of pity or obligation. 

Again Potter said goodnight, the words forced as Draco held the door ajar and watched him cross the sitting-room with Hippy leading him out.

Closing the door, Draco leaned against it and took a deep breath. He could give this up because it didn’t mean anything; because he didn’t mean anything, not to Potter. He was just a story, and Draco had got some of what he’d wanted from the interviews. 

But he still wanted more.

For the first time in five years, Draco closed his eyes and realised that the light still flickered. The shadows weren't absolute. There was always a way out. Relief – a choked breath – came, and Draco felt the invisible hold of despair loosen, finally blink out.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- In Between the Light -**

Fear, Draco had learned, was a brutal master. It was irrational and something he had fostered for too long and given too much freedom without regard for fetters. Every step he hadn’t taken took him nowhere, and Draco realised he’d liked it that way. Until now.

He stared at the morning, feeling Potter still wrapped around him. Brushing his arms or touching his lips only teased his memory, and he was unable to rid himself of the sense of loss that Potter’s departure had left behind. 

Only one kiss, and Draco was afraid of losing— everything. People were so easy to take and discard. Draco wondered if he was doing that to Potter; if Potter had even noticed his struggle, or if he’d accepted Draco’s words at face value. To Draco’s surprise, Potter had shown some ability to see more than Draco had expected. His observations about Draco’s behaviour at the outset were enough to make Draco feel unsteady, like he’d become like a sheet of glass.

No answers came, but this time Draco hadn’t expected any. For once he was aware that this decision was his alone. Now he just had step out the green drawing-room, into the garden. Just open the door.

With a fleeting glance at the handle to the garden door, Draco turned and eyed the drawing-room, re-living the previous evening. A kiss, and a lesson Potter surely hadn’t meant to teach him. Not even Potter was that percipient. Draco thought more that Potter didn’t want to be walked out on and instead considered himself above respecting another person. Draco supposed that having a child had made Potter less inclined to hurt him for fun and gig. Even that, though, Draco doubted. Potter was a mystery, one Draco wanted to unravel still. Those weeks together hadn’t sated his curiosity, only made it worse.

Always wanting something he couldn’t have.

He scoffed. Draco grimly recognised that he had turned Potter away this time, rather than being rejected. Of course, that didn’t make it any better. Experience had formed his view of relationships. There had always been give and take; a favour for a favour. The political manoeuvring of his youth had made him realise that those who he’d thought of as friends were learning and doing the same thing. Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle – some succeeded more than others, but the fact remained: they’d been raised to think and act as someone to expect everything by all available methods, and play people against one another to get what they wanted. The outcome had always meant to be in their favour.

Then the penultimate question - _what would he get from Potter or have to give?_ \- pervaded his thoughts. Recklessly, he wondered if it mattered. Anyone could have taken Potter’s place and been the spark in his darkness, still Draco felt happy that it had been Potter. Their history made it ideal.

 _Potter._ Absently, Draco brushed his fingers across his lips and looked at Potter’s chair, wishing – beyond reason – Potter would show up _now_ , next week, next month, as long as he came back. That it was unlikely didn’t stop him from wishing.

Across the room, Potter’s bag sat, slumped against the chair like a sleeping house-elf, and in two steps, without a thought of shadows, Draco moved closer. He stopped, frowning at his uncharacteristic impulsivity. 

If Potter realised his trust had been misplaced, Draco didn’t feel the need to point it out. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to avoid the bag if it remained, Draco called Hippy and ordered it to be returned to Potter at once.

After a day spent staring at the winter garden, Draco received an owl from Potter.

-=-=-=-

Days passed before Draco surrendered and responded to Potter’s letter.

> Potter,
> 
> I trust you are well. I am pleased that Hippy returned your things and all was to your satisfaction. I’m afraid that I didn’t notice it until after breakfast, so if you had need of the items inside before then, I apologise.
> 
> As for the kiss, no need to apologise further. Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant. I have no plans at present to involve myself with anyone romantically. Friends, on the other hand, would be welcome.
> 
> To your question about shadows, I can only say that Dementors became synonymous with them for me; that will have to do to sate your curiosity. 
> 
> Where have you gone that you have snow?
> 
> Malfoy

-=-=-=-

> Potter,
> 
> You do realise how typical it is for you to spend your time in the half-giant’s hut to write, don’t you? I suppose I can’t fault you for seeking familiar places. I’m still trying to work out how you became a journalist. You’ve spent an inordinate amount of time moving from vocation to vocation if the _Prophet_ is to be believed. 
> 
> No, I do not have any arrangements for Christmas. My mother wishes me to join her at the Manor, but I am quite comfortable here and shan’t leave. Your invitation is noted and appreciated, but I’m afraid I shall have to decline.
> 
> Congratulations for completing your article are in order, if your last letter is any indication. I’m sure that you’ve used the information you were given wisely. If not, be prepared for Howlers: I may not leave the house, but I’m not above flooding Grimmauld Place with them. You’ll have to go further than Italy for your holiday if you wish to avoid them.
> 
> In future, I should prefer if you didn’t feel the need to request the use of my given name solely for the purpose of saying it while you masturbate. I’m flattered by your indulgence and including me in your fantasy, but I’ve already said that any romantic relationships are not imminent in my life. If that’s your way of flirting, I daresay you’ll agree it wasn’t your finest attempt. I suggest something less crude if you insist on including details like that in your correspondence. As for seeing you again, I think we both know that would be a bad idea.
> 
> Have a Happy Christmas & Happy New Year, Potter. All my best.
> 
> Draco

-=-=-=-

The last time, weeks ago, Draco had stood at this door, the distance had still felt too great. Now, with the garden dusted with a soft white and bits of green fighting to get what sunlight it could, Draco held the handle of the door, just waiting. He closed his eyes, allowing calm to wash through him. Though he’d declined Potter’s invitation, Draco still couldn’t ignore the desire to accept it belatedly.

Opening his eyes, Draco took a deep breath; turned the handle and stepped out into the world for the first time in years.

The cold air bit at Draco’s skin, and he felt the urge to turn and retreat into the house. But he had to do this. He knew that hiding away would only make him more of a failure. If he continued to fear things he couldn’t control, he’d never amount to anything. Draco didn’t want to live up to his father’s belief that his son’s worth had been defined by failure. 

Feeling the crunch of snow underfoot, the icy breath of nature against his lips and cheeks, Draco smiled, accepting the affection given by the elements. He took a step, put one foot in front of the other, until the cold crept into his bones. 

This time, he shrugged off the feeling of Dementors and let winter be innocent and unstained. 

Draco returned to the house to find a package waiting in the green drawing-room. The scrawl on the front told him exactly who it was from. Enough time had passed that he thought maybe Potter had believed his attempt to dissuade his advances. Though Draco wondered if he was deceiving himself any better. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Potter’s interest stemmed from pity, and he wouldn’t abide that. 

A letter sat atop the small packet, holding, he assumed, a note from Potter about what the edition of _The Quibbler_ held. Draco opened it and read quickly the brief holiday wishes, the date of Potter’s return and his thanks again for Draco’s story, and his regret that things hadn’t worked out better between them.

Draco set the letter down and opened the packet with the magazine and flipped directly to the section with his name.

> …Don’t pity Draco Malfoy. He’ll resent it and give you a look that says how little he thinks of you. And I don’t blame him. For everything he’s been through, Draco Malfoy is one of the strongest people I know. He’s faced things many of us couldn’t imagine, let alone survive…
> 
> …When I first took on this assignment, Draco meant nothing more than a paycheque. He’s much more than that now. I’d like to count him as a friend. Learning about his life, I’ve come to care for him…
> 
> …The assignment changed briefly once my boss saw my initial notes. Those I won’t share. A man’s strength through adversity should be remembered, not his weakness, and I won’t be the one to write about what he went through so much as the one to write about who Draco Malfoy became…
> 
> …I was wrong about Draco Malfoy…

Draco was unable to continue. He didn’t even care to read Potter’s interview with his father. Single-minded, he reached out and read the date of Potter’s return again. Two days – Draco had two days to make a decision.

Draco dropped the magazine on the table. He supposed it didn’t matter in the end. Whatever decision he made, he would abide by; he’d marked time long enough.

Sighing, he looked at the photo of Potter in the corner, a slow smile forming at the sight. Harry Potter. 

He could never take a chance and allow fear to control him.

But he could take a chance, let the past remain an island; let Potter teach him something. Teach Potter something; he had a feeling they both needed it.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

**\- Embracing Shadows -**

The dilapidated façade of number twelve Grimmauld Place looked at Draco from across the road, large and imposing as ever. Potter hadn’t seemed to take the effort to make it look less like a deranged Muggle had managed a _Sectumsempra_ across it. It had been so long since Draco had seen the house, though, that he suspected his Aunt Bella had been the reason for the scars no Muggle could see. Everything, it seemed, bore marks from the past, no matter how deeply buried or visible, and Draco, ready to pull the bandages from his wounds, stepped under the street lamp, without flinching, and crossed the road.

The tarmac crunched lightly under each of Draco’s steps, and he reminded himself that he’d denied his desires long enough. What he’d thought had been pity was more, and giving in, accepting his own attraction to Potter, wasn’t weakness, but another strength he hadn’t realised was there. To deny what he wanted would have been weak, particularly when Potter had offered – something; friendship, companionship – the things he’d been missing and desired. ‘A man of strength’ Potter had written in his article. 

It was enough.

As Draco reached the door, the wind complaining in a harsh whisper, he shrugged off the chill and rapped a few times. 

This was his choice, one he’d needed to make for weeks. Potter’s words, _I was wrong about Draco Malfoy,_ resonated in his thoughts, and as he waited in the silence dark of night, long-awaited peace enveloped him. The only contact Draco had had with Potter since their last meeting and the kiss had been a few more owls. Writing his thoughts on the war and the past had been easier than talking about it, and Draco had found Potter’s short, poorly-quilled replies something to look forward to.

And to have a taste of the memory of that kiss, of Potter, Draco had often stood in that spot of the drawing-room, letting the sunlight warm him, and remembering something that felt bright.

Footsteps sounded from the opposite side of the door, then Potter, surprised, smiled at him. 

The polite thing would have been to send an owl, but Draco couldn’t afford calculated planning this time. He’d never have made it out the door and Apparated to London if he had.

“Draco. I wasn’t expecting you. Er, come in,” Potter said, then stepped aside, and pulled the door with him.

“Harry,” Draco greeted him. “How are you?”

Potter’s smile hadn’t waned. “Good – brilliant. You?”

Draco entered, his shoulder brushing against Potter lightly. What felt like fingertips ran up Draco’s spine, and warmth like embers settled in his chest. He stepped away out of habit, but Potter didn’t seem to take offence; he closed the door, his cheeks flushed.

“Quite well, thank you.” Draco looked into Potter’s eyes behind the glasses, still seeing green brilliance. He inhaled a breath like life.

“I… I didn’t think you—” Potter gestured unhelpfully, “—left the estate.”

Irritation rose, but Draco forgave Potter his tactless observation. They weren’t enemies any more, and hadn’t been for some time.

“It was a challenge, yes,” Draco said. “But there are things worth some amount of discomfort.”

The red in Potter’s cheeks deepened. “Yeah, I s’ppose.” He cleared his throat. “Er, if you’d like something to drink? Tea? I’ve some wine, but it’s not very good, I don’t think. Too…” He waved his hand, seeming to lose the train of thought. “Tea,” he blurted out after a moment of silence, then turned.

Draco had fought himself too long over this moment; he wasn’t letting Potter get away. He reached out, wrapping his fingers around Potter’s wrist before Potter could take an step.

Potter froze, then faced Draco. He didn’t pull away, just looked at Draco, a question in his eyes that Draco couldn’t answer – not with words. Damning his pride, Draco tugged Potter’s wrist. At the wrinkle in Potter’s brow, a groan rose, stopped short by Draco swallowing. There were no words to say what he wanted. Nothing, just thoughts and feelings that mounted so high he felt like they were going to topple if prodded any further by Potter’s inability to understand subtlety.

“What—”

Draco tugged again, and Potter took the hint, closing the distance between them. The difference was _physical_. His heart pounded, and his chest expanded and contracted quickly as it pressed against Potter’s.

Their eyes met, and though Draco’s hands trembled lightly, he didn’t falter. He released Potter’s wrist and then pressed his hand to Potter’s chest. Beneath the t-shirt, rapid breathing to match Draco’s own answered the touch, and as he traced the contour of Potter’s collarbone, he continued up, feeling the fabric tickle his fingers until his palm rested at the base of Potter’s head, and messy black hair, a darkness he could countenance, draped over his hand. 

They stared at each other, heartbeats ticking by.

As Draco leaned in, Potter parted his lips in welcome. A split-second hesitation followed, but Draco continued when Potter’s hands closed around his hips and the touch scorched him. 

Draco had kissed before. At least he thought he had, until Potter had proved him wrong – and continued to do.

Draco had no rhythm. His movements were clumsy, but what he lacked in practical knowledge, he made up for in desire. Draco kissed Potter quickly. Now that he had what he wanted within his grasp, he feared time would take it away if he didn’t get it all right then. Potter didn’t seem to care. He met Draco movement for movement, his hold tightening on Draco’s hips as though they were drifting apart. 

With each inhalation, Draco tasted Potter, earthy and rich, found in him brown and green – and red that flared behind it all. It was discomfiting to come alive in such a way. The need to feel more and continue imbibing what Potter gave made Draco’s head spin. He had always been proud of his self-control, but under Potter’s hands, it melted away like wax under a flame. But that brightened everything, made Draco shudder and ache to know what other pleasures rested under Potter’s hand.

Slow rocking began between them. Draco’s cock throbbed with urgency under each kiss and squeeze of strong hands. He could barely breathe for the way Potter’s fingers dug into his hips; Potter’s erection felt dizzying as Firewhisky. Draco’s legs and arms trembled as he tried to keep his hold, managing to grab a fistful of Potter’s hair. But Potter kept shifting, stealing Draco’s ability to think. 

Each slow bump of their bodies wasn’t enough, though.

Potter pulled Draco closer, making a sound as their cocks ground together beneath jeans and wool. The pressure increased and subsided as Potter continued pulling, and lightening his grip. It didn’t matter to Draco that the kisses were sloppy and that the sound of saliva, lips and teeth were just as loud as their breathing. He just wanted Potter to continue, not to take away the delicious sensation surging throughout his body.

“You can touch me,” Potter said before moving his hands to Draco’s arse. Then he leaned in, and what Draco had expected to become a kiss was something else. Teeth sank into his neck, followed by a soothing tongue. Touching Potter – Draco struggled to hold his hand in place, not to let his knees buckle. He couldn’t remember ever having been so hard before. Places within him ached to be touched and calmed, roused and teased until he collapsed. His body knew what it wanted, and Draco had been denying it for too long.

Draco tilted his head back, and Potter’s mouth continued up his neck, promising more with each swipe of his tongue.

They moaned.

Together they felt like one person writhing. Draco closed his eyes and panted. “Ha— Harry, stop,” he said, his request at odds with what he wanted. But they were going too fast, and if Potter didn’t stop, _this_ would end before they even got started.

“What?” Potter asked, his pupils blown. “Did I… misunderstand?”

“No!” Draco said quickly. “No.” He shook his head, taking a shuddering inhalation as Potter’s hips canted. “Too fast,” he admitted.

Potter’s cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen and slick. “You’ve never…?”

Heat rushed to Draco’s face and he shook his head.

“You should’ve said. Is this what you want?”

 _Stupid question!_ Draco blinked rapidly. “Yes.” It came out rushed and awkward. His eyes shot to the floor.

“Draco,” Potter said, taking Draco’s face between his hands. “I’ll stop. If you want.” His square, thick fingers pushed through Draco’s hair, and sent a shiver down his spine. He wrapped his arms around Draco.

His hands trembled, but Draco returned the embrace. He didn’t know what to do, how to respond other than flexing his fingers and feeling firm muscle beneath his fingertips. But he wanted this. Whatever it was Potter was offering, Draco wanted it, because it felt good, and for once in his life, it was his decision to make. There were no shadows, no darkness, only Potter. And him. 

Draco wasted no more time. He leaned forward, mashing his lips against Potter’s. The familiar blunt press of teeth against the inside of his mouth came, then the fast, hungry twisting and curling of their tongues. Potter moaned again, and the sound buried into Draco’s thoughts, echoing as their shoes scraped against the floor and Potter pulled them backward. Draco went, faltering, but holding onto Potter as tightly as Potter held onto him. 

They bumped into a wall, stumbling over each other. Potter’s fingers worked open Draco’s buttons, and Draco, following his example, tugged at the hem of Potter’s t-shirt, yanking it up and getting the material wrapped around crooked joints and flesh. Frustrated, Draco gave up, waiting. Reaching around and through Potter’s thick arms was too complicated for his nerves. To want something so badly was new. Draco could wait; he had done for months already, re-living the taste of Potter’s mouth over and over again. Every time he’d wanked since the first time his body had reminded him of an erection and the pleasure of yanking his cock until everything narrowed to the straining jerk and tense of his arm as his hand glided around his shaft, while the other hand fondled his balls.

Draco liked the way Potter’s hands felt as they scrambled to get to his skin. They roamed, not as skilfully as Draco had assumed, but still moved with single-minded intensity. With his back against the wall, Draco steadied himself and arched into the searching hands. His body moved of its own accord, needing to get closer and feel more. He wanted Potter’s mouth, but it was too far away. 

In the frenzy, Potter murmured, but never stopped. Draco couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. The intent was clear. A stroke against his cheek, and a kiss to his ear as Potter finally got the fabric opened. 

At the first touch of Potter’s hands as they slid up Draco’s chest and raked across his nipples, he moaned. He tried to restrain the sound, but he couldn’t help it. It climbed from his chest and throat like a present to Potter for his ability to soothe the ache years of solitude had left behind. 

They were equally desperate, Draco in a way he could never admit. Potter’s hands, warm and confident, slipped under Draco’s robe and rested on his shoulders. His mouth followed his fingers, pressing kisses against Draco’s collarbone, down the centre of his chest, and to Draco’s stomach as he sank to the floor.

 _Oh, Go—_ , Draco thought, feeling the first ghost of breath over his abdomen. Every muscle went taut as Potter’s fingers hooked in his pants and worked them down Draco’s hips. Potter’s nails scraped his thighs, and Draco looked down in fascination as Potter’s lips parted and he took the base of Draco’s cock in hand. His tongue extended, and his breath washed over the head. Another shiver rolled through Draco’s body. He moaned, trying to fill his lungs as quickly as the air left.

The first curl of Potter’s tongue around Draco _felt_ delicious. It was enough to taste and savour, and then the heat of Potter’s mouth closed around him, and the wet glide of his tongue and lips combined, sliding down Draco’s shaft; then he sucked so hard his cheeks hollowed and encased Draco’s cock. Around him, heat and wetness, as though tasting Draco’s cock was the only thing Potter wanted, spread. First over the head, then down, down, and Potter’s mouth withdrew. Only to do it again, faster.

Draco’s fists hit the wall, and a dull throb met the force in his wrist and finger. But it didn’t matter. Potter’s tongue pressed and massaged him, and Draco wanted to watch _and_ feel, but couldn’t do both. Watching required too much concentration, but feeling, Draco could do. 

He looked down more than once, his head snapping forward and backward when Potter’s mouth withdrew. To see his own cock disappearing between Potter’s lips and have the feeling of suction, saliva and hot breath made his blood pump faster. Potter liked what he was doing: his eyes were closed and brow furrowed. He licked, sucked and his hand, rhythmically concentrating on the head and using a tight ring of forefinger and thumb to stroke, moved without relent.

When Draco’s head wasn’t against the wall, he watched. And the simmering heat within him intensified, boiled as Potter’s free hand gripped Draco’s thigh and he moaned deeply, paying appreciation to Draco’s cock. Higher the sensation built, like liquid roiling in a cauldron. 

Draco looked down again when the hand on his thigh disappeared.

Between them, it was easy to see the fast jerks of Potter’s arm. Potter was going to come, because of Draco, and what he was doing to Draco. There was nothing like Potter; the man was all fire and no water to keep him in control or at bay. He consumed everything he encountered, now working his way to having Draco in the same way. But Draco didn’t care. This was a rush of impulsivity that gave him freedom from bonds he’d imposed on himself, ones he hadn’t realised were there until Potter had touched him for the first time. As much as Draco knew this to be dangerous, for once he didn’t care. Pleasure at Potter’s hand and mouth flowed through his veins, rushing and re-making his understanding of what touch, taste, and sight were.

Unable to control himself, Draco released a long, guttural sound. His hands shot out and took Potter’s head, held as he snapped his hips forward. Heat flooded up his spine making his scalp tingle. His mouth dropped open and like a twig snapping, he broke. Colour exploded behind his eyelids as he came, still feeling Potter’s mouth, and come spreading over his shaft as Potter’s mouth sank lower. 

Then Potter groaned, releasing Draco’s cock. He buried his face in Draco’s pelvis, panting and gripping as though he had a mile-high fall to the floor. Reflexively, Draco bunched Potter’s hair in his grip, finding a sense of stability in the mess sprouting between his fingers.

Recovery took more than a few breaths, but Draco managed; Potter followed some moments later, running a hand up and over Draco’s spent cock, Draco’s thigh, across his abdomen, chest, then stopped at his neck. Sensation rippled out as though Potter’s hand were a rock in a lake, and as they came face to face, Potter steadied himself against the wall, with – Potter’s - semen dribbling down his hand. Seeing it made _this_ real and impossible to deny how much Draco wanted it again. Once wasn’t enough, and curiosity to taste the remnant of pleasure leaving behind a wet trail as it slid down tickled Draco’s desires.

Potter leaned in, breathing heavily. Each exhalation caressed Draco’s skin; the brush of his chest against Draco’s at uneven intervals felt like a heartbeat, as though the moment pulsed with as much life as they did.

Then Potter pressed his lips to Draco’s again, giving a lazy hum when Draco responded, mouth open extending his tongue. The taste was bitter, much like the majority of their interactions, but this was palatable, something Draco, while not used to, could become so without hesitation. He reached out, but dropped his hands again, torn between giving and receiving and the meaning of doing both, when he’d only ever been selfish.

Desperation had left both of them, replaced by a tenderness Draco thought impossible. With each languid kiss, Potter seemed to give reassurance and softness unexpected by a once-sharp tongue. Maybe he’d been blunted by life as much as Draco had. In return, Draco hoped he did the same, that Potter kept his mouth where it was and moving as though Fate depended on it because what Draco gave was something he needed too. 

Draco reached out, wrapped his arms around Potter. Nothing had prepared him for how Potter’s body sagged against him, how he tried to get closer even though it was impossible. 

It ended far too soon for Draco’s liking. He watched Potter straighten up with a dazed expression. What happened next was beyond Draco’s understanding. Satiation kept him silent, waiting for Potter to suggest the next move. Until he had a clear direction, Draco would remain comfortably against the wall.

“Draco,” Potter said, his voice rough. “Let’s go upstairs.” After buttoning his jeans, he wiped his hand on his thigh; then raked it through his hair. Red decorated his cheeks – a sight that made Draco’s heart climb into his throat; it was incredible to see colour again, to see life and feel it wrap around him.

Silly though it was, the urge to say ‘thank you’ rose. Instead of speaking, Draco wrapped his robe around his torso and stood still. Curious, he looked down, saw the splatters of come of the floor and decided he liked Potter’s reaction to him; to them.

Already Potter climbed the stairs, his broad shoulders disappearing up the first flight as Draco watched. The decision was his: to continue on, see what else Potter had in mind, or turn around and leave. He could do either, but it was as though something tied him to Potter, made him put one foot in front of the other and follow.

Up Draco went, trying to cast away his fears. Consequences could be, for once, dealt with later. There was nothing to be afraid of.

At the first floor landing, Potter waited against the wall, his arms folded and a smile on his face. If there hadn’t been an invitation before, that would have been enough for Draco.

“This way,” he said, and reached out to take Draco’s arm at the crook of his elbow. Dragged – willingly – Draco went along, ignoring his surroundings. His gaze remained fixed on Potter’s hair sticking up in every direction, the places Draco’s fingers had been obvious - not even a hand through it could tame the mess.

The bedroom wasn’t far from the stairs. They entered a doorway on the left, first Potter then Draco with wood protesting under their feet. On the chest of drawers, three candles burned, as though Potter had been in there before Draco had interrupted his evening. Potter released Draco’s arm and went to the bedside table. He pulled a jar out and set it down, the sound of glass hitting wood loud. 

Draco watched Potter as he set his wand down and pulled back the sheets. His heartbeat sped up and an itch of discomfort moved through him. If Potter wanted him to stay… That hadn’t been a thought for Draco; he’d left without thinking, deciding on the thing he wanted and going after it. _God_ Potter made everyone like him, so quick to rush into the fray without analysing anything. Draco despised liking that most about Potter. Age had changed it but not taken it away, if his first kiss and the touches during the interviews were anything to go by. But that, it seemed, was what Draco needed, for someone else to point him toward the things he’d been missing; to give him direction when standing in the darkness had left him with none.

“C’mere,” Potter said, holding out a hand.

Drawn in, Draco crossed the room and accepted Potter’s hand. His warm, firm grip pulled Draco in until their bodies were flush. Potter, though broader, was nearly Draco’s height. His eyes, dulled by the candlelight, held a challenge, but also tenderness that made Draco uncertain.

Potter smiled softly, his fingers trailing up Draco’s sides slowly, across his chest, then to his shoulders, where they plunged beneath Draco’s robe and guided it down until calloused fingers tickled the back of Draco’s arms, and elbows.

The fabric hit the floor with a whisper, then died. Potter leaned in, brushing his fingertips across Draco’s hips, his arse, and moved up Draco’s back. Arms hooked under Draco’s, Potter pulled Draco, his head tilting forward and lips pressing against Draco’s collarbone. Draco’s head tipped back, an offering to give more as Potter’s lips trailed up and he sank his teeth into Draco’s throat.

To steady himself, Draco reached out and clamped his fingers around Potter’s hips, digging them in as Potter’s tongue replaced his teeth. Slick and warm – Potter licked a long stripe, his breath hitting and teasing Draco’s excited flesh. Draco moaned; closed his eyes and panted. He couldn’t get enough air, touch or sensation.

Already his cock began to harden, the scratch of Potter’s jeans against his exposed flesh uncomfortable. But Draco wouldn’t pull away or demand he move. Instead, he released Potter’s hips and reached between them, his shaking fingers fumbling with the button keeping their bodies from contact. Potter twigged and shifted his hips back as he sucked skin and stroked Draco’s spine with deliberate pressure.

Finally the button co-operated - _inhale_ \- and angled free of its confines. Draco - _exhale_ \- parted the folds of denim - _inhale_ \- and pressed his fingers against Potter’s abdomen. Hard, tight skin met his touch, traces of hair tickling him as he clumsily worked the zip down. _Exhale_ \- Potter moaned. _Inhale_ \- Draco shivered as Potter’s lips - _inhale, exhale_ \- wrapped around his nipple and Potter’s hand closed around his cock. Draco exhaled, moaning, losing control of his fingers.

“Draco,” Potter said, his strokes firm. 

That Potter’s hand was damp and skin rough didn’t bother Draco. “Mmm?” 

“Lie down.”

Part request, part demand, Draco couldn’t ignore the words. They travelled through him, taking control of all movement. Fabric raked across his thighs, knees, and pooled at Draco’s ankles. Nothing apart from shoes and socks remained. And further impelled by Potter’s words, Draco turned and located the bed: just behind him, but so far away, only two steps, three at most.

More than enough. It wasn’t cold in the room, but as he took the first step, a ripple of something, too abstract to define, apart from the way it ghosted across his skin, slid down; over his shoulders, lower still and prickling as though touched by ice. He hesitated. Behind him, it sounded like Potter had decided to remove his clothes. The soft, limp thump of his shirt hitting the floor came first, then the shifting to work his jeans down, Draco suspected. He took another step. Then another, and another, until he finally reached the edge and sank onto the surface of squashed fabric, as though Potter had bothered to tidy up the sheets that morning. At least they were soft, comfortable.

He ran his hand over the bunched surface. The candles flickering left jumping shadows across his arm, down, over his fingers. A flinch, small, garnered Potter’s hand on his shoulder.

Startled, Draco looked up, his eyes moving across the expanse of Potter’s chest. He wanted to touch, but Potter whispered something, naughty and possessive, but kind enough for compliance. He let his weight fall backward. At first he didn’t know where to put his hands. They lay at his sides, unmoving apart from the tremulous wave of inexperience running over them.

Draco wondered how anyone could appreciate the feeling of vulnerability the position gave. Lying in wait completely helpless, he watched Potter. Potter took his time, lowering himself to the floor and lifting one of Draco’s feet. His fingers roamed across Draco’s ankle, tickling, and plucked the laces of his shoe until they unwound. Tender, appreciative caresses drew a soft sigh from Draco. There was no need to look up, so Draco didn’t; he let the tension in his shoulders and arms dissolve as salt in water.

Potter’s touches said more than he ever could. The careful way he moved from Draco’s right foot, then the left and removed both shoes and socks demonstrated his level of regard, that whatever motivated him wasn’t malicious. Further Draco relaxed, languishing in the feel of Potter’s hands as they moved up his shins, over the curve of his knee and his thighs. 

Fully hard, Draco’s cock lay against him, pulsing at the whisper-like swipe of breath and fingertip that raked over his skin. Every time, without fail, he tensed and released like being shocked, aching for Potter to go on. Murmurs came and went like a breeze, and Potter, seemingly satisfied with something, rose. His hands moved between Draco’s thighs, urging them open. 

Exposure and vulnerability, when not being taken advantage of, had a heady quality. Gasping at the feel of Potter’s hand encasing his balls, he spread his legs; shivered at the way he knew Potter watched him. And Draco wanted to be watched, appreciated and desired. Potter seemed to well enough; he made a soft shuddering sound and lowered himself over Draco, bracing himself with a hand on each side of Draco’s head. 

_Th-th-thud_ \- Draco’s heart stuttered; then pounded at the feel of Potter’s body, naked and hard against him. It seemed perfect the way Potter moulded and fit against him. He pressed, still feeling like he had to get closer, and brushed his lips against Draco’s. At first, it was soft. Gentle. Like a greeting. Then as though fearing a valediction, he overtook Draco’s mouth with his own.

Needy and inelegant, Potter’s tongue darted against Draco’s. They met in the middle, clashing, wet – smooth and forceful. As if to punctuate his kisses, Potter’s hips rolled, his cock sliding against Draco’s. Draco moaned, his eyes slipping closed as Potter offered the same. To hear another’s pleasure was like sustenance and Draco drank it in; swallowed, inhaled, and tasted it.

The pressure of Potter’s hips alternated. When he ground down, their skin stuck and released. Hair grated, creating a mixture of indescribable sensations. Some were pleasant, others enough to stall the thrill of sex. And still it wasn’t enough.

Whether Potter realised it or not, Draco needed the sense of security his body atop Draco’s gave. It was a strange mix of need and fear of floating away on the high of being so close to someone that made him wrap his arms around Potter’s back and flatten his palms against the shifting muscles. It kept Potter close, allowed Draco to feel the tensing and relaxing beneath his fingers. To feel that Potter was alive – warm and real.

Losing himself, Draco moved from Potter’s mouth to his nose, cheeks and temples. Overwhelmed, needing more, but not knowing how to ask for it, or what exactly he wanted, he dug his nails into Potter’s back. A hiss answered, sibilant against Draco’s chin, accompanied by moist breath and teeth sinking in. Between that and the rolling, pressing rhythm of Potter’s hips, Draco groaned.

“Yes,” struggled free, and Draco nuzzled Potter’s collarbone; bit down on the edge. Potter grunted. Every sound he made tasted good. They were never enough, though. And while Potter’s restraint was admirable, Draco had lost his. Lying, becoming inebriated on pleasure, Draco tried to keep up. He writhed, not knowing what else to do. Action and reaction replaced thought, were thought, became motion, emotion, and finally Draco gave voice to what he felt. Fire had never felt so good, nor the force of skin sliding together, rubbing sticky and hot between them. The friction between them intensified, then grew softer.

Draco swiped his tongue across Potter, the taste of skin and sweat discernable. But there wasn’t anything savoury about it, just the hint of soap underneath, none of the sweetness rumoured. Funny, he thought, that not even Potter was that special. Didn’t stop him from doing the first thing that came to mind, though: licking, biting, sucking until Potter made gratified noises in response. Draco needed to hear how he affected Potter, how even though he had no experience, he could touch Potter the way he wanted to be and still give pleasure. But Potter seemed intent on being in charge. 

If he didn’t stop soon, they’d be done, long before Draco wanted to be. Weeks of sifting through bitterness and disappointment – failure – had already made him reckless, giving in to something he knew to be against his better judgement. Potter seemed to draw that side of him to the surface, never relenting until he had what he wanted. Draco didn’t know what that was, though, apart from sex.

Not knowing terrified Draco.

Second thoughts rose when Potter slowed the grind of his hips. He nuzzled Draco’s neck and whispered, “I want you, Draco.”

“Yes,” came out as a moan. Draco wanted Potter, too, and the feeling of rattling apart from the inside. The way Potter had handled Draco’s drunken outburst, he trusted Potter to do the right thing. Always, no matter how desperate he seemed, Potter took care to give something for everything he took. This Potter, anyway. And Draco wanted to give it, even if he didn’t know how. So far, Potter had seemed content with Draco’s touches and their lack of finesse. He’d made sure Draco wanted more with his teasing and breathy encouragement. Every sentence he spoke felt like another set hands gliding over him. Draco loved it.

“I want to make you come again,” Potter said, then stuck his tongue out and flicked Draco’s ear. His breath - _the words_ \- did their job and made everything ordered into chaos.

A snatch of breath later, Draco agreed; would have agreed to anything just then to make Potter keep going and not stop until his body shook, aching from satiation and greed for more. Because Draco knew he’d want more. There was no half-way with Potter. What he didn’t consume and wrap others up in, he hinted at and teased with – innocently in all probability – making it impossible to say no. All hesitation left Draco.

At Draco’s consent, Potter drew back and looked down. His hips were still nestled tightly between Draco’s, his cock still against Draco’s. A wild flush covered his cheeks, chest, shoulders, and neck. Even if Draco had never admired a man before, he did it then. 

The look suited Potter.

No shame for being displayed came, and Potter noticed. His expression made Draco feel like a meal rather than a person. Draco congratulated himself for getting this far, not finding his robe and leaving, orgasm be damned. It was the pause in sensation that made his mind catch up, though. All of his fantasies from those weeks after Potter’s kiss were suddenly real, his to take and savour, shadows and all. There had been times in Draco’s life when he’d thought he’d needed a hero, but he’d finally learned that he didn’t: just a reason to make himself decide between what he wanted and what was expected, or learn who was worthy of him. Watching Potter gather the jar he’d pulled out earlier, Draco thought Potter might know the same feeling. Potter wasn’t the symbol everyone thought he was; neither was Draco, and yet here they were, naked, open to each other in a way that words had never been able to provide. But one touch, a kiss, drove them  
equally to their knees for more.

Draco propped himself up on his elbows, a tremor running through him. He finally got a look at Potter, lean and broad shouldered, that angled into nicely-set hips and a cock that Draco had no measure for. In the candlelight, Draco made out the dark head, sheathed by his foreskin, and the veins running along the length. As Potter unscrewed the lid, Draco watched, wanting to wrap his fingers around Potter. But that could wait. There was plenty of time for exploration, if this went beyond now, and the minutes coming became hours and days. 

Then Potter interrupted his snapping thoughts by casting a spell that did something to him he refused to think about.

“Alright?” Potter asked as he sank between Draco’s still-open legs.

Draco nodded and licked his lips. It fascinated him the way Potter’s attention followed his tongue. But then Potter bit his lip and Draco did the same, realising Potter’s mouth had more uses than speaking – the appeal made sense. It was a hole to sink into, wet, tight as a person could make it, and _hot_. Eager, if that person was Potter. Possibility was the throb that moved through him.

Potter noticed and smiled, his eyes glinting. “Any idea what you look like?” The bed shifted under Potter’s weight as he settled between Draco’s thighs.

No response came to mind. They’d reached the point where it was that or nothing, and Draco hadn’t made himself leave the house for nothing. This he wanted so much that it was hard to swallow; hard to hide the way he spread his legs further and ached at Potter’s response: a soft moan and caress of his fingers across Draco’s balls. Draco rocked his hips into it, demanding more.

“Perfect,” Potter said, trailing his fingers down until they reached Draco’s arse. “Fuck, you’ve already been playing with yourself, haven’t you?” The question wasn’t directed at Draco, just breath and arousal vocalised.

At the press of Potter’s fingers, their slow circle around the rim of Draco’s arse, he moaned, his body flexing and ready. Yes, he had played, touched himself, worked out that the whirl Potter’s fingers moved over in feather-light touches responded nicely to slick thrusts. Draco clenched just thinking about it, and with Potter watching appreciatively, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip, heat spread over Draco’s chest and face.

Slowly Potter coated his fingers, watching Draco. “Alright?” he asked and put the jar on the bed.

Draco nodded, waiting. It was torture trying not to plead for something he already had. First Potter spread the oil, massaging the rim of Draco’s arse, only pushing enough to breach, then withdraw. If he was trying to drive Draco mad, Potter was successful. Tense – penetrate – relax – withdraw: over and over, with what sounded like a sloppy kiss between, as Potter’s thick fingers stretched him. 

Wrapping his fists in the sheets, Draco panted, unable to concentrate on anything but the feel of crackling nerves. Time passage paradoxically ground to a halt and flew by. When Potter withdrew his fingers, Draco began to protest, but stopped short; replaced it with a gratified moan and arch of his back as Potter positioned his cock and rubbed it against Draco’s arse. The first press was bearable. Excitement and nerves, Potter’s thorough teasing, allowed him to open up, and shift his hips to get more. But Potter’s cock, no matter the reality, felt much larger as he eased his way inside. Gentleness didn’t lessen the burn as he stretched around Potter’s shaft. Every measured breath he took helped, made him feel dizzy and grateful he was lying down. Somewhere he’d lost his sense of gravity and the world spun, siphoning every inhalation. But it was so good he couldn’t complain.

Even the hurt was good. Somewhere deep down, Draco felt this was nothing next to the way he’d been hurting himself, and that this somehow cleansed him, made him feel things he’d denied and ignored for sake of appearances or duty; out of fear.

No longer would he deny himself or let fear imprison him.

Potter got as close as possible, keeping his mouth against Draco’s. It was a cage, but not the ones Draco was used to. This one, he knew he could leave; just let himself be trapped for as long as the need remained, then could set himself free.

At every withdrawal, Draco moved his hips to get more, angling as he gripped Potter’s arse; then when Potter drove in again, he tried to recoil, fighting the same instinct. Heavy breath cascaded over his neck, cooling his sweat-moistened skin. 

As quickly as it came, it was gone, as Potter raised up. “Stroke your cock,” he instructed, still thrusting, the pace increasing. 

Draco took his cock in hand, finding that teasing wouldn’t do, only the tight, quick jerks he favoured when alone. With Potter over him, his eyes closed and alight with pleasure, Draco drifted. Potter was beautiful to watch, his face red and glistening, while his muscles tensed with every snap of his hips.

Then Draco’s heart stuttered and pleasure shot through him as though Potter Summoned it. Higher and higher – Draco had nowhere to go. He moaned, squeezing his cock, harder and harder, clenching around Potter; finally dropped. Come flooded over his hand, landed on his stomach as Potter continued to thrust.

Shudders wracked his body, continually, his voice starting, then dying out. He tried to swallow, but there was nothing, only air and the feeling of his wet prick gliding in and out of his fingers.

Potter withdrew completely, but didn’t go far. He guided Draco’s legs to the bed and straddled them, with his cock in hand. He stroked, two, three, four times, twisting his hand up over the head and shot come over Draco’s stomach with a deep groan that felt like a hand grabbing Draco’s balls.

Potter shuddered, breathing heavily, just like Draco, making no attempt to move. He seemed to grow tired of squeezing the head of his cock and finally moved, but not away, as Draco had expected: he leaned over and kissed Draco; stole Draco’s ability to think or breathe. Potter had left ashes of Draco without his permission, and no matter how much he wanted to dislike it, he didn’t. 

He reached out and wrapped his arms around Potter, his body trembling. Potter didn’t move, wouldn’t let Draco slip away.

For a while they tried to get their breath back and said nothing. Content, Draco remained still. Potter moved first, reaching for his wand on the bedside table. A charm later, the wet stickiness had gone and Potter urged Draco on his side.

Draco didn’t argue. He let Potter position him how he liked and lay, trying to ignore his body’s reaction, and did successfully.

They became a mass of tangled limbs as they sought comfort. Potter’s hands were heavy and warm. Their heat emanated through Draco’s cheek and flank, and the contrasting chill of nerves reacting under the stroke of Potter’s thumb felt more private than having sex. This was a touch about more than fulfilling a desire, something Draco was unfamiliar with, but liked.

“I don’t love you, but I could. I want to,” Potter said abruptly. “I can fuck anyone, but that’s not what I want…”

It sounded like an offer, even if Potter’s tone was like water flowing over rocks. Potter knowing what he wanted was fine, but Draco didn’t know what he wanted, or really what he felt apart from freedom. He knew he wasn’t in love, and hoped Potter didn’t expect a declaration of some sort. Yes, he’d become comfortable with him, enough that _this_ \- whatever it was – had even happened, but there were a lot of things Draco had to work out before he could make any commitments. Every response that came to mind died; even chiding Potter for his crude language.

At length, Draco said, “I think I could want you to.” It must have been the right thing to say because Potter smiled, leaned in and kissed Draco tenderly. 

This unknown territory frightened Draco. He’d made up his mind that Potter’s lead was one he was comfortable to follow, but he wondered if a relationship would become just another prison. But looking at Potter, Draco knew that he was aware of what being caged felt like when all one wanted was to be free – of fear, doubt, shadows, any obstacles likely to hold either of the back.

Words were superfluous, so they didn’t speak, only used touches to guide them until sleep took hold.

In the morning, Draco woke surrounded by warmth and a sense of security. One of Potter’s feet hooked around his ankle, but that was the only part of them touching. The protocol was again foreign to Draco. He inhaled deeply and stretched, feeling Potter’s foot untangle from his. 

Steady, soft breathing continued from beside him, so Draco got out of bed and crossed to the bedroom window.

Having always been in Potter’s shadow, his father’s, and hiding from things as a means of protection, Draco wasn’t sure what to do. He could go home and remember the previous night or he could stay and stop letting the shadows and fear be a master he didn’t want to be chained to.

Draco didn’t know what to expect, but he made a decision. The sheets rustled as Potter rolled over and looked at him, smiling. He lifted the blanket and waited – patient to the last.

Draco returned to Potter.

+end+


End file.
